


More Than We Are

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergent, Canon Related, Electricity, First Kiss, Hunter Dean, M/M, Mind Reading, Pining, Pre-Series, Sam Has Powers, Stanford Era, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12682665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: Sam's powers have always been an even bigger pain in the ass than this impossible thing he wants from Dean.When the older Winchester receives an invitation to California, he is dragged down memory lane and into a situation he's not prepared to handle.Still, what Sammy wants, Sammy gets. At least so far as Dean can provide, but everybody has their limits, right?





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has gotten an insane measure of beta love.
> 
> Endless gratitude to Karmascars, DarkSun, Jerzcaligrl & Winterwolke  
> all of whom contributed time, talent and tech skills to making this fic what it is.
> 
> We all hope you'll let us know what you think.  
> B

[ ](https://imgur.com/R0oBJhl)

 

 

 PART 1

 

Dean bit down on his belt, tugged the needle, and watched lacerated skin drag together again. The antiseptic spray was supposed to numb the wound and surrounding area, but when you’ve got a 6 inch gash in your flank, there’s only so much a topical can do. 

Pain was one thing: a welcome guest in that symbiotic sense that warriors and athletes understand. He wouldn’t say he loved it, but he’d made his peace with its presence in his life. In return, Pain let him know that he’d survived to hurt another day. 

The worst part of stitching wasn’t the pain. It was the initial piercing of the skin. That sickening pierce of needle through flesh never ceased to make him gag. It was part of the reason he’d never pierced his ears. That, and he figured it’d look douchey. 

Not to mention his dad would have just ripped them out of his head. 

By the third stitch, Dean’s whole body was trembling. A medical professional would sew at least five. He’d done what he could do. Three was going to have to cut it. The room had been spinning since the stab of number two. It’d just have to take longer to heal. Sue him. 

Dean was plastering the edges of the gauze when his phone rang. Right hand still bloody, he used his left to pick up. He groaned—wouldn’t have even answered the damn phone if Bobby hadn’t already left four messages. 

“What?” 

“Where the hell you at, boy?” 

“Montana.” Dean hissed as he smoothed over the bandage tape. “Fucking ghouls.” 

“You hurt?” Only Bobby could make that sound like an accusation. 

“I’m fine.” 

“How many times I gotta tell you to find yourself a partner?” 

Dean rolled his eyes. If he had to hear that bullshit again he’d drive Baby off a cliff and be done with it. The fact was, he’d be alone for the rest of his life—and the way Dean lived, that probably wouldn’t be too long. 

“What do you want, Bobby?”

“Listen, smart ass. You need to wrap that up and get over here.” 

“You’re— _ugh_ —not gonna tell me why?” Dean winced, an involuntary grunt slipping out at the twinge as he lowered himself onto his back. 

“ASAP, Dean.” 

That tone didn’t bring back great memories. 

“I’ll get on the road first thing.” Dean ended the call at that and tossed the phone onto the empty bed beside him. 

He closed his eyes and tried, like he always did, to dream of nothing.

 

::

 

_At first, he’d ignored the light taps on his cheek, the tiny sparks that ignited against his skin every time the little fingers connected. Relentless, they poked the tip of his nose until Dean groaned._

_His father snored away in the other bed._  

 _A small voice squeaked, “You awake?”_  

 _“No.”_  

 _Every inch of Dean’s body thrummed with a dull ache from training. Even so, he would never complain about the spindly leg draped over his hip. It’d been a few days since Sam had spoken and his voice was crackly: probably needed water. The kid hardly talked to anybody other than Dean. Not even their dad._  

_On the rare occasion that some pretty waitress with a lollipop got him to speak, Sam would whisper his name. He’d answer the age question with, “Halfa Dean.”_

_Little kid genius had worked out the math on his own. Dean would grin and stick the candy in his pocket._  

 _Yeah, Sam was sweet. But the middle of the night was the only time Dad wasn’t breathing down Dean’s neck, and he intended to spend it sleeping._  

 _Bitty fingers tugged on his ear. “Dean.”_  

 _“Yeah, Sammy,” he groaned under his breath._  

 _“Do you hear them?”_  

 _“Hear who?”_  

 _“The bed bugs.”_  

_Despite the pain, Dean pressed a smile to his baby brother’s forehead. “No, Sam. I don’t hear the bed bugs. Go to sleep, buddy.”_

 

::

 

All bugs directly to Hell. Do not pass Go. Dean scratched his arm for a solid twenty seconds while glaring down at the silver envelope on Bobby’s cluttered desk. Books and manuscripts, light bulbs and old keys, a half-eaten sandwich that was hosting a convention of flies. In the center of it all, this damn piece of mail, addressed to John _and_ Dean Winchester. Care of Bobby Singer. 

It hadn’t sprouted teeth and mauled him yet, but Dean wasn’t taking any chances. 

From the kitchen, Bobby reappeared, a bottle of JD in one hand and his coffee in the other. He proceeded to combine the two in true hunter tradition on his way across the room. “I told you to tell him, didn’t I?” 

“Gimme a break,” Dean grumbled. He picked up the offending letter, fingered its creamy texture. “What is this, baby skin? 

Bobby stopped mid-sip. “’S’vellum. Idjit.” 

Dean knew it was fucking vellum. But it smelled like a perfumery. He turned his nose up at the fragrant residue on his hand. Dropping the letter back amidst the chaos, he scratched the back of his neck. “Why do I have the feeling I'm not going to like this?” 

“Open it anyway,” Bobby said with a snort, pulling a letter opener from one of the pen-filled mugs on his desk. 

A few more moments of hesitation Dean snatched the sword-shaped letter opener from Bobby’s hand. A replica Excalibur. Funny. Dean wasn’t in the mood to laugh. 

Once he got the stupid thing open, he stared at the card as though it were inscribed in indecipherable runes. When he finally dragged his gaze back to Bobby, he was fogged up. Faded. He could only gape, letting the emotions wash him out to sea. His lips formed the heads of words, none spoken. 

“What the hell does it mean?” he finally managed. 

“You know good and goddamn well what it means, boy. You’ve gotta go to California.”

 

::

 

 _The moment Dad shut the car door, Dean hopped onto his knees in the passenger seat and grinned over the back at the maps clapped open in Sam’s lap._  

 _Dean leaned over closer to get a better look at the neon green crayon swirls. “What’s in Palo Alto, Sammy?”_  

 _The little guy shrugged and went on scribbling as Dean straightened Sam’s clip on tie. They were both freshly shorn lambs, courtesy of their dad’s heavy-duty clippers. There was less than inch on Sam’s noggin. Dean couldn’t help smile at his ears sticking out like he worked at the North Pole. He rubbed a thumb at the dark stain on his little brother’s cheek._  

 _“Let me see your hands.” They were covered in chocolate, too. “Jesus, Sam. Dad’s gonna kill you.” Dean searched the car and found nothing better than the underside of his own crisp white sleeve._  

 _Huge, hazel eyes stared up at him. “You ever seen a dead body?”_  

 _Dean nodded as Sam wiped his hands on him. At the ripe old age of nine, he’d seen too many to count. Some of them had even been human. Dean had scattered the salt on all of them. Dad lit the matches._  

_This would be Dean’s first real funeral—that he could remember, anyway._

 

::

 

Dean wore his customary black tee and jeans, armored in a military surplus jacket. The damn invitation—for that’s what it was—had said _Casual Dress_. Bobby said that meant ‘come as you are,’ so Dean went as he was. Turns out neither of them had a clue. 

From the moment the gilded double doors opened, Dean’s nose prickled at the slow-decay scent of money wafting off these people. Champagne flutes clinked light and airy as glass bells. Laughter rolled out of cosmetically altered, cherry-red mouths, and the fug of cigar smoke surrounded a sea of swank blazers, slim fit chinos... If these were Sam’s people, the kid had definitely upgraded. 

Before Dean could flee, some huge guy came barreling through the crowd towards him. On sheer instinct Dean’s hand flew to the blade at the small of his back—he also had a small pistol strapped to his calf, but there wasn’t time— 

As it turned out, the giant wasn’t attacking. The giant was _Sam_. And this was a handshake so firm that for another moment, Dean kept doubting the guy was actually his brother. 

Sam huffed at the small spark when their hands clasped. It used to happen all the time, thanks to Sammy never picking up his feet when he walked. Looked like that was still a thing. 

“You good?”

“Yeah," his brother chuckled. “Yeah, sorry.” 

This Sam was a whole new animal with the firm, confident grip Dean had spent a decade trying to teach him. Apparently, these rich fuckers had succeeded where he’d failed, turning Sam from a shy little nerdling into the assertive young man towering over him. When Sam slapped Dean’s arm, it was good-natured and warm: a man’s greeting, poised and direct. 

They regarded one another for an interminable moment, 

Dean spoke first, blurting, “God damn, Sammy. The hell you been eatin’?” 

Sam dropped his chin to his chest when he laughed like he didn’t want to anyone to see that gorgeous grin.  Finally, something familiar. Those dimples were as contagious as ever. Dean had to smile back. 

He couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes, though. That was another change: more than half a foot of hair fell over them. Five inches longer than Dad ever allowed. Sam looked like a goddamn hippy. 

It suited him. Took the edge off his angular face. He’d shot up, bulked out, and with the hair? He hardly seemed like the same person. 

Dean still had to force himself to stop staring at him. 

Big brother really ought to have his shit together after five years. 

Dean schooled his expression. He used to be so good at controlling the way he looked at Sam, even if he couldn’t do anything about the way he _saw_ him. Less awe in his eyes, more affection. Less worshipping the ground beneath him, more ‘hey kid, what's up?’ Give him a noogie and make like he wasn’t the center of the known universe, yeah—that worked back when Sam was 4 feet tall. What was Dean supposed to do with this massive, stunningly masculine version of his brother? 

When in doubt, neutrality was best. Safest. Sam was just another guy. Dean was just his older brother. Two normal dudes... with an abnormal upbringing that had made them closer than they ever should have been. It had also ripped them apart in ways that Dean had barely survived. 

Clearly, the separation made Sam thrive. Fair or not, that was the way it was. 

Well, shit. Dean was so lost in his thoughts, he’d missed whatever Sam said. 

“I said, you haven't changed much.” 

“Yeah, well…” Dean shoved his burning palm into the pocket of his jacket. 

Sam frowned down at himself, his huge body or the Brooks Brothers gear, or both. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“No, you look… healthy. Happy.” Dean bit the bullet and spit it the fuck out. “Married, Sam? That’s amazing.” 

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through all that hair. 

Dean diverted his eyes while he still could. 

“Dad?” 

“He, uh…” Dean shook his head. He was not ready for that talk. 

The way Sam pursed his lips was so familiar it hurt. “Old man always could hold a grudge.” 

Dean clapped his brother’s arm in solidarity and nearly had a heart attack.Fucking hell. Sam was built, solid as Special Forces under that suit jacket. Gone gone _gone_ was the scrawny stripling he had put on that bus.

Dean shook off the initial surprise. “Hey. Where’s this girl? No. Let me guess…” 

There were plenty of hot young things in the room. This new Sam could have his pick of the litter. Dean could, too, even if only for a night. What he didn’t know was Sam’s _type_. What got him going? 

There was the one girl, but that hardly counted. 

In answer to his curiosity, a tall girl emerged from a small group of cute, but less striking ones. She flashed a smile at Sam, starting toward them. Dean appreciated the view. 

Golden curls cascaded over slim, lithely muscled shoulders like that painting of Venus in a clamshell with her hair covering her assets, a bunch of naked cherubs flying around. Easily one of Dean’s favorite pieces of art. 

“Well, god damn, Sammy.” Dean punched him lightly in the arm this time. The boy had done it. He’d hit the jackpot. Money _and_ legs. “Way to go.” 

Jessica Moore. The invitation had already introduced her. She was the kind of girl who could make pink lace elegant. Not slutty at all. A little saucy, maybe, with a smile the perfect temperature to charm some decency into a scoundrel like Dean Winchester. She was smart, unassuming, gorgeous ...Exactly like Sam. 

Even her perfume was subtle and sweet. 

“You must be Dean.” Her smile was almost as pretty as Sam’s. 

He half-bowed and shook her outstretched hand: soft, but a firm grip. Maybe she was the one who taught Sam how it was done. “Mrs. Winchester.” 

Sam laughed. “Not yet.” 

Jessica rested a manicured hand on the same spot on Sam’s arm that Dean couldn't stop touching either, and leaned in. “Moore-Winchester.” 

Dean’s brow tweaked. “More?” 

“I’m going to hyphenate.” 

“Oh. Okay,” he said. “That’s uh … modern, right?” 

“Sam, honey, why don’t you go get us some drinks?” 

“Sure.” Sam glanced between her and Dean, but didn't move. 

‘“Scoot, honey.” Dean shooed with a grin. 

Sam pursed his lips, sighed and obeyed. He was immediately swept into a conversation with a Regis Philbin lookalike. 

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Now, her hand rested on Dean’s arm. 

He winced at the fresh pain in his side and eased away from the contact. “I assume Sam’ll go down the aisle once.” 

“I certainly hope so.” She gave him a well-practiced smile; pleasant, if a little tight. 

A cute waitress came by with a tray of finger foods. The bride-to-be helped herself and brother-of-the-groom did the same. 

“My parents invited a hundred people,” Jessica complained through a mouthful. 

“Well, I hope they’re footin’ the bill.” Dean did his best not to grimace at whatever was in his mouth, which tasted vaguely fishlike but was not any kind of fish he’d ever had. 

Jessica had eaten it and it wasn’t killing her, but maybe she had some kind of rich girl immunity. Where was Sam with the damn drinks? 

“Sam will have four guests, not including you.” 

“Still not Mr. Popularity, I take it.” No surprise there. 

Sam always had trouble in that department. Dean raked his tongue along the roof of his mouth, trying to get rid of the nasty taste.

“No. People like him. Everyone does. He's just a tough nut to crack, is all.” 

“Looks like you managed.” It was out before Dean could censor himself. 

The look on her face told Dean she’d heard the tone that he hadn’t meant to take: mistrust with a touch of envy. Or maybe the other way around. Note to self: _be less of an asshole when talking to future sister-in-law._  

But Jessica’s expression didn’t read offended or even surprised at the outburst. “To some extent, I guess.” 

“Doesn’t get more cracked than walking down the aisle.” 

Married. Normal. Well-adjusted. It was everything Dean had ever wanted for his little brother. Right? So, why he was pitching this bitchfit? 

Jessica didn’t even seem to notice anymore. She was too busy staring a hole into Sam’s back from across the room. He’d made it as far as the bar only to have a little old lady talking another hole in his ear. 

She drew in a deep breath. “Dean, you mind if I ask you something? Just between me and you.” 

“Shoot,” he replied, even though this girl shouldn't confide in him. 

There was a part of him that wished he could tell her to go screw herself. Every single ounce of him cast a longing glance at the exit. Never should have made this stupid trip. 

She tugged on one of her curls. “I wouldn’t usually… It’s just been bugging me. I, mean, I know how silly it is. Last day jitters and all. There’s just no one else who knows him, you know? Who’s known him forever.” 

Dean _had_ known Sam forever—before the last five years, in which his little brother had completely changed. 

“What can you tell me about Sam’s first girlfriend?” 

Dean wasn’t sure what he’d expected—maybe some bedroom tips for the honeymoon—as if any normal person would expect him to have information like that about his own brother. What the hell was wrong with him? He had to get the fuck out of there. 

Sam was still being physically held in place by the old lady, but his eyes on Jessica and Dean looked distressed at this distance. Wait, did Sam actually think he was trying to put the moves on his girl? 

Not his girl, his fucking fiancé. 

Practically his wife. 

Sammy’s wife.

There he was, standing in front of Sam’s wife, and his little brother was glaring across the room like Dean was going to stick his tongue down her throat. 

After all this time, if that was what Sam thought of him, he could go fuck himself. 

Dean’s body temperature, his breathing, and his pulse were rising fast. He had to get it together or risk exploding. Somehow, he managed to squeeze words out between his teeth. “Sam could tell you a lot more than I could.” 

“He never talks about his past relationships,” she said quickly, quietly. “I just have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that there's this girl out there that Sam won't talk about because she has such a deep hold on him. And one day, she's going to turn up out of the blue, bat her eyes, and take him away from me.” Fear was painted on Venus’ face, although she tried to remain dignified despite her lip trembling, her breath coming in shallow puffs. 

Dean didn’t have the slightest idea who this mystery girl could be. But he did know his brother. At least he had, at one point. And unless everything about Sam had changed, there was one thing he could bank on. 

“Jessica,” he said, as gently as he could manage, “my brother is the most honest person I know. He’s truthful to a fault—and he chose you. If there was another girl, he'd be with her.” He cleared the sand out of his throat. “You’ll have to excuse me.” 

He made for the door. Right out of it, the cool ocean air smacked his face hard enough to make his eyes water.

 

::

 

 _The air whipped through the open window, cold and fresh. Sam tucked himself under Dean’s arm with a shiver._  

 _"I'm gonna marry you when I grow up," he said._  

 _Who ever knew what station Sam’s train of thought would pull out of? Sam’s big-little brain was always working a hundred miles a minute. The kid might not even know he’d said that out loud. Dean tried not to smile. It wasn’t really working, so he turned to grin out at miles and miles of dirt and darkness._  

 _John Winchester rarely took his eyes off the road. Now, though, he spared a glance over at his boys._  

 _“No, you're not.”_  

 _As quiet Sam was most of the time, he never passed up an opportunity to argue with their dad._  

 _“Yeah, I am.”_  

 _“No, Sam. You’re not.” His voice was louder, with an edge like he was considering pulling over._  

 _Dean bit his cheek and went on staring out of the window. Sam was a little kid. Why was his dad making such a big thing about it? It was funny._  

 _“Yes, I am. Right, Dean?” Sam nudged his ribs with his bony elbow._  

 _Dean had wanted, so very much, to stay out of it. But Sam had asked him directly and he prided himself on never lying to his little brother. So, he tried to tell him the truth in a way that didn’t sound like he was siding with Dad. “Probably not, buddy.”_  

 _Then Dean made the mistake of looking down into Sam’s eyes. The idea had been to comfort the kid, not make himself feel like complete shit. Sam's lips trembled. A tear slid down his cheek._  

 _Dean grasped for recovery. “But we're always going to be best friends. You are going to marry some super hot rich chick who’s going to pay you to do nothing but sit around on your ass all day. You’re gonna marry, like, Paula Abdul.”_  

 _“Why don't you want to marry me?” Sam tucked his chin to his chest and hid his face behind his hands._  

 _Dean nearly died hearing those little whimpers._  

 _“Aw, Sammy. Hey. Hey. Guess what? I got something for you. Got you a present. You have to stop crying first and I'll give it to you. Sam. Stop. Please, stop crying.” Cracks threatening the integrity of his heart, Dean wiped the fat tears from his brother’s face. “Okay? Okay. Close your eyes.”_  

_And he lifted his hips to pluck the last, warm stick of Juicy Fruit from the back pocket of his jeans._

 

::

 

Dean held the poorly wrapped gift and let out a loud sigh. If there was ever a time a guy could be sentimental, it was when he was standing alone, half-drunk in a $50-a-night motel room that stunk of vomit, 5 miles from the place where the next morning, his little brother would say the big ‘I do’ and ride off into the sunset. 

Like normal people do. 

Sam was one of those now. A civilian. Like it was supposed to be. The only threat to that equation was Dean, which is why he was removing himself. 

He drained the last of his beer and flung the can away. It made a hollow clang against the wall. 

All he had to do was figure out what to do with this present and he’d get the hell out of Dodge. And then, at least he’d driven all this goddamn way to drop off the present. It certainly wasn’t the kind of thing you send in the mail. It wasn’t the kind of thing you let out of your sight. 

Give it away? Even to Sam? 

Dean was losing his mind. 

A knock came while he was on his way to the mini fridge. Assuming it was the motel manager, for god knew what annoying reason at this hour, Dean grabbed that third beer and took his time answering. 

“What the hell, Sam?” 

“Are you alone?” Sam slurred, swaying on his feet like the last five shots weren’t such a hot idea, looking for all the world like he was about to hurl pricey hor d’oeuvres onto the carpet. 

Dean stepped out of the way to let his brother stumble into the room and toed the salt line back in place. 

“So, you sloppy bastard. How’d you know what motel I was in?” 

Sam only stared; they both knew that answer. 

“You driving like this?” 

Sam shook his head. He was panting like he’d run the entire way from the hotel where the dinner had been held. 

“Dude, sit down before you hurt yourself.” 

Long fingers clutched but found no purchase as he began a slow descent to the floor. Heavy as he was, Dean helped him sit with his back to the wall. 

Sam hung his head. “Don’t leave. Don't send me away again. Dean, please, don't make me go.” 

“I came to see you. I saw you, so…” 

Sam shook his head and reached out. “Please, Dean.” There was a small jolt from his clammy touch. He pressed Dean’s knuckles to his own lips, mumbling something else. 

Dean leaned close, partly because he had no choice with Sam clinging to his hand, pressing sloppy kisses there. “Say what, Sammy? What do you want me to say?” 

“Say it,” Sam repeated. “Tell me—Tell me to break this off. To break it off with her. Tell me,  and it's done.” 

Dean slipped his tear-streaked hand away from his brother and knelt in front of him, palms on Sam’s knees. It was wrong to like this. What kind of creep preferred to see his brother needy? Needing _him_. 

How many times had they sat like this while Dean talked Sam into going to school, putting up with their dad, or eating meat? How long had Dean defined himself as Sam’s anchor. His guiding light. How long had it taken him to create a new identity for himself independent of this fucking kid and his frailty? 

“Hey,” he sighed, standing, extending a hand. “Come on. Get up, and go lie down. You’re going to be in some serious pain in the morning.” 

The terror on Sam’s face was out of proportion for an impending hangover.

 

::

 

_Abject horror. Like he was the one in the cage and he knew exactly what was coming._

_Dean shook his head in wonderment and disgust. “How the hell did you come by a chupacabra in Nebraska?”_  

 _“Language, Dean. Sam, focus up.”_  

 _Their father’s dark eyes narrowed on the beast behind the bars as he raised his younger son’s arms to help him aim._  

 _The fugly bugger hissed and spat, throwing itself against the door to the enclosure. Dean had never come up against one of these before. But he’d read about them. That thing would gladly sink those four-inch claws into any one of them. Dean couldn’t understand his brother’s reticence to finish it._  

 _“She’s scared,” Sam argued like he was defending a human being instead of a spiny goat-sucker the size of a bear._  

_“It’s a monster, Sam,” Dean said. “I mean, look at it.”_

_The creature had gone still. Its beady black eyes rolled from Dean to Sam and back again._  

 _“Hey, Maria. You don’t look at them, you look at me.” Their dad_ _tapped his 12-gauge against the bars inciting the thing on the other side to growl and bare yellow fangs._  

 _Dean rubbed Sam’s back, his finger tracing under the wing of a shoulder blade. “Look. It’s real simple, pal. Just like we did before.”_  

_“That was cans!”_

_Dean winced. That was shrill. “Sammy, just squeeze the trigger,” he said, “and the world’s a better place.”_  

 _“Kill it, Sam!” John shouted, banging the bars again._  

 _The creature shrieked. The whole cage shook._  

 _Sam trembled._  

 _Dean snatched the pistol and shot the damn thing himself._  

 _One bullet to the head. Adios._  

 _“Goddamnit, Dean.” His father’s finger was in his face. “That was not your kill, boy. Not your kill.”_  

 _Sam’s face was buried in his neck. Dean’s chest heaved. He held onto his brother with his free hand and glared over his shoulder at their common enemy._  

 _“He's obviously not ready.”_  

 _John’s eyes narrowed at his son, talking back. “He’s a year older than you were.”_  

 _Dean was six the first time he took out a werewolf. Stabbed it in the neck, blood spurting hot all over his face. His father had already brought it down, but Dean dealt the final blow._  

 _“Sam’s not me, Dad. When he's ready.” He patted Sam’s back, encouraging the kid to pull himself together._  

 _It was over._  

 _John took the gun from Dean and started to walk away, out of the warehouse, but on a dime, he turned around and marched back._  

 _“I know you think you're doing him some big favor, always coming to his rescue,” he said. “But what do you figure’s gonna happen when you’re not  there to protect him?”_  

 _He stepped closer, jabbing his finger at Dean again. “You keep this up, and whatever happens to him down the road is on you.” He lifted his chin; an ultimatum. “Think you can live with that?”_  

 _Dean watched until their father had exited the building. Then he took Sam’s damp cheeks between his hands._  

_“He’s wrong, Sam,” he reassured his brother. “I am always, always going to be here.”_

 

::

 

“So. Why are you here?” Dean turned away from his hulking baby brother, disheveled and sprawled on the bed like… 

Nope. He wasn’t even going to think about how Sam looked, lying there with an arm over his face as if the naked bulb was hurting his eyes. 

“Why are you leaving? Don’t try to deny it.” 

“Look, I…” Dean’s mind scrambled over excuses and explanations. 

Sam mowed right over his stuttering. “I was going to let you go, but I can’t.” 

Never was shy with the melodrama, that one. 

He propped up on his elbows. “I want you to take me with you,” he added simply, as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world. 

Dean wandered across the small room, searching for anything else to do with his eyes and his hands than put them on his brother. 

“Take you with me where?” 

“I don’t care. Out of here. This whole thing is a mistake.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Jessica.” 

Was that a wince when Sam said her name? 

And as usual, Sam read him reading him, and deflated. “She’s good company. She’s not…” He buried his face in his hands. “God. How could I let this happen?”

He looked up again, hair hanging over his eyes. So beautiful. 

“She’s pregnant.” 

 

Dean hadn't seen that coming. But it made sense. He sighed and swiped a palm over his own scruff before dropping next to his brother. As alluring as Sam was—and hot _damn_ —Dean wasn’t about to maul his brother while he was hurting. 

Not ever. 

“Hey, buddy. It’s okay.” How many times had he used that line? The words must be damn near worn out. 

Sam shook his head but didn’t raise it. “What was I supposed to do?” 

“Exactly what you're doing.” It’s what Dean would have done. The right and honorable thing. You create a situation, you deal with it. Make a bed and sleep in it. Their dad had done the same— 

“I don't love her, Dean.” 

This was one of those rare moments that left Dean Winchester completely at a loss for words. 

A kid. Wow. 

Sam peeked from under his hair. His movements were so subtle: a roll of shoulders, slow torque of waist. An untrained eye might not have seen it coming. 

But Dean sensed the shift in the air and braced himself for impact.

 

::

 

_The second his tired body fell to the sofa, Sam was crawling toward him from the other end, thick-ass book abandoned among the ratty pillows. Like a puppy, his little brother curled up in his lap—chest to chest, giraffe knees poking Deans armpits, bony chin on his shoulder._

_Dean huffed a laugh and breathed into Sam’s hair. He smelled like he’d been running around, but had probably spent the whole day with his nose in that book. Dean’s hand raised of its own volition and rubbed lazy circles over Sam’s back, hoping to ease his tension. Coiling an arm around Sam’s waist, he closed his eyes, feeling like a human being again instead of some hunting machine, programmed for rage and violence._

_He’d almost fallen asleep in the shower. This was too good not to sink in._

_Dean's life consisted of two reliable elements: bad shit and Sam. As usual, their dad had been riding his back like crazy. Training him like the end of the fucking world was tomorrow. Warning him about all the terrible things that would happen to Sam if he couldn’t get those drills right. Too slow: a talon to Sam’s throat. Wrong angle: fangs in Sam’s gut._

_You had to give it to him; the old man knew how to motivate._

_And he was back from his beer run. The door to the Impala slammed shut. Sam tensed and tried to slip away._

_Dean patted his shoulder and murmured, “It’s okay, buddy.”_

_They both knew what was coming, or at least some variation on the theme Dad had been harping for the last year or so. Dean would be damned if he let his father make him feel bad for hugging Sam. The kid had no home, no friends, and no mother, for Christ’s sakes._

_He opened his eyes.  Dean had clicked on the old TV when he came into the house. Behind Sam’s back, something about sharks, and if he could have dove in and swam away rather than deal with his dad, he’d be gone._

_John walked in with his beer. "God damn it, Sam.”_

_He grabbed the boy by the scruff of his ratty t-shirt and hurled him to the other end of the couch. “You are too fucking old for this shit.”_

_“Leave him alone, Dad.” With unexpected energy and impulse, Dean leaped to his feet and shoved his father._

_The old man rebuked him with a right hook to the jaw. Sam sprang, clawing at their father's face like a rabid spider monkey. It was an all-out coup. Dean clasped onto one of John’s arms, but they were both too small to make it count for anything other than a symbolic gesture._

_He knocked Dean back onto the sofa and carried Sam, kicking and screaming, and dropped him in the corner. The way he loomed, Dean tensed, ready to rescue Sam, if necessary._

_With one finger, their father dabbed his mouth. Admiring the blood, he announced, “Well, if you got that kind of fight in you, you’re ready to hunt.”_

_The door slammed shut behind him although he hadn’t touched it. Must have been the wind._

_Sam_ glared after _their father with eyes so cold it sent a chill through the room._

 

::

 

Or was it—Do men get hot flashes? 

Dean wasn’t sure, but it was either too hot or too cold in that fucking church. He was sweating, that was for sure. And studying his fists like he had grown additional thumbs. 

It was the only thing he could manage. The one time he met Sam’s gaze was a mistake. All that heat and sorrow sent a surge up Dean’s spine he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. 

Every time Dean raised his face, Sam was still trying to eye-fuck him in front of God and Jessica’s father.

People were following his stare. Of course, they were. Sam wasn't interested in the minister or in his own bride; he was too busy gawking at his brother. 

Somebody a couple of pews back whispered inaudibly. Even Jessica turned around to see where Sam was looking. 

“You may kiss—Samuel.” The preacher waved an arm to get his attention. “You may kiss the bride.”

 

::

 

 _There was something on his lower lip._  

 _He’d been soaking in the sun like a lizard for nearly an hour and had no other plans whatsoever. Even when he’d heard Sam approaching, he hadn’t moved a single muscle._  

 _It wasn’t a finger tickling him. Something thinner. Lighter. Maybe paper. Dean smiled and let Sam play. It felt good._  

 _Their dad was gone for a few days and whenever he left, it was like fifty pounds of dead weight lifted from Dean’s chest._  

 _Whatever it was kept tracing Dean’s mouth and although he was curious, he just lay there, grinning, until Sam asked:_  

_“Can I kiss you?”_

 

::

 

Dean’s eyes snapped open. 

“You blinked again.” The photographer frowned down at her camera. 

There is no worse torture in the modern world than standing for wedding photos. Remember the good old days, when you couldn’t tell the pictures were shit until weeks later after you had them developed and it was too late to do anything about it? The woman gestured for them to stay put. 

Sam’s arm was draped over his shoulder giving off waves of deodorant and expensive cologne and Sam. No problem at all. 

Dean’s arm around Sam’s waist, because that’s where the photographer wanted it. Totally fine. 

When she wasn’t looking, Sam’s lips grazed Dean's temple. It shocked his skin, like it always did when they touched. 

Dean shoved his brother off. “That's going to have to do it,” he informed the photographer as he tromped past her. 

When he glanced back over his shoulder, Sam was watching him. Of course, he was. The idiot didn’t have an ounce of shame anywhere in his overgrown bones.  

 

::

 

 _And he was still waiting for an answer. His perfectly tanned face blocked out the sun. He was chewing on a blade of grass, vulpine eyes wide and innocent._  

 _“What?” Dean said, even though he’d heard it loud and clear._  

 _He was stalling for time, hoping Sam would back off seeing the discouragement on Dean’s face. At least he hoped that's what his expression read._  

 _Discouragement._  

 _No, Sam. No._  

 _His expression would have to do it, because he couldn’t say it out loud. Never could tell Sam no. He always had to find another way to say it._  

 _Sam was staring at lips. “Can I…” He reached a finger out to touch._  

 _That, Dean could allow. A finger was a compromise. The first inch._  

 _The kid started leaning toward him like Dean had written an invitation._  

 _“Sam.”_  

 _“Please?”_  

 _Dean’s mind scrambled for clarity._  

 _Scrambled._  

_This was his brain on Sam._

 

_He said the only thing he could think of. “Why?”_

_“Because I love you, silly.”_  

 _Dean laughed a little at that, despite the gravity of the situation. It was cute and funny and the most dreadful thing that he’d ever had to deal with._  

 _He wiped the sweat from Sam’s forehead. Another damn spark bit his finger. The kid inclined toward him again. Dean raised a hand to his brother’s shoulder, and disappointment spread over Sammy’s features like blood seeping from a wound._  

 _“Sam.” Then, as if it needed to be said: “Brothers.”_  

 _Sam slumped back and pulled his knees to his chest, sucking on his lower lip as he stared out at the lake. Dean sat up and scooted over so they were shoulder to shoulder. For a long time, he watched the ripples on the water, too. What was down there? Turtles? Fish. Maybe something sinister. But he wasn’t going to think about that. Their dad was gone. They were supposed to be enjoying the summer._  

_He tried a playful nudge, but Sam stayed still as a stone._

_“Hey.”_  

 _Nothing._  

 _Dean sighed and waved a hand in front of Sam’s face. “Ground control to Major Sam.”_  

 _He even went so far as to put himself between Sam and the view. The kid stared through the goofy face Dean tried._  

 _“Sammy.”_  

 _Did he really need to hear Dean say how much he loved him? Sam could question any and every other thing in the world, but not that._  

 _He finally took one of Sam's damp hands and the kid let his arm hang, limp as a corpse. He could be a stubborn little bitch when he wanted._  

_There was a jolt on Dean’s lips when he pressed them to his brother’s knuckles. It was a kiss and it would have to be enough. He stood without a word and walked back to the cabin._

 

::

 

The Moore estate sprawled over eight acres of gardens and fountains and marble statues. Sam really had struck gold. Then again, Dean would have thought that about any girl whose family owned a house. He hadn’t lived in the same place for more than six months since he was four years old. 

Dean leaned forward over the water to get a better look at the big ass goldfish in one of the ponds. 

“Don’t fall in.” 

The voice startled him, and he nearly did just that. 

“Sorry.” The newcomer smirked, anything but. 

Her hair was darker, shorter and straighter, but the similarities in her face were unmistakable. She was an older, colder Jessica. And smoking—literally. 

“So, you’re Sam’s brother.” She gave him a once-over. “You don’t look alike.” 

Dean snorted. “We don’t really anything alike.” 

“Melissa.” Jess’ sister didn’t bother holding out her hand, and that was fine. 

“You a lawyer too?” He’d heard somewhere that the parents were judges. It must be genetic. 

Jessica’s sister shook her head and put out her cigarette in a statue’s blank eye socket. 

“Physician.” 

“Must be a real disappointment.” 

She ignored Dean's sarcasm. “You weren’t in the wedding party. You and Sam don’t get along?” 

“Not my scene.” Sam hadn't asked him. Probably hadn’t expected him to show up at all. 

“And the way he was staring during the ceremony. Couldn’t tell if it was love... or hate.” 

“Yeah.” Dean’s shifted gears. “And you and your sister?” 

Her plucked brow arched. “So, Sam’s brother…” 

“Dean.” 

“Hello, Dean.” Melissa flicked her cigarette butt into the bushes. 

When she took his hand, it wasn’t to shake, but to guide him toward a gazebo. There wasn’t a single reason to resist.

 

::

 

_He groaned, shuddered and rolled onto his back. Carla was like aspirin: temporary relief of pain and other unwanted sensations. Her fingers crept over his chest. “Your little brother is adorable.”_

_“Should I be jealous?” He asked to make her laugh._

_She was twenty-four, and had no qualms about yanking a 16-year old from the cradle._  

 _“I’m not that big of a freak,” she teased, kissing him. “But I have a little cousin who would love him.”_  

 _Dean ignored the twinge in his chest at the thought of Sam with a girl. Sam with anyone. Of course, it was inevitable, but he didn't have to rush the damn thing._  

 _“I don’t think he’s ready for that yet.”_  

 _“He’s twelve. What is he waiting for? True love?” She laughed at her own jokes, too._  

 _Carla swung her thick legs off the bed and wiggled her ass when she bent over to collect her clothes. Dean was supposed to watch and make some smarmy comment, so he did._  

 

::

 

Dean pulled up his pants.

Jessica’s sister’s hand traced the mark over his heart. So many girls had asked him about it over the years, he’d had lost count. He gave them all the same answer: ‘Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart.’ 

Melissa didn’t ask. Dean didn’t say anything at all. 

Well, not about that. “You're on the pill or something, right?” 

She grinned. “Little late in the game now, isn't it, cowboy?” 

Dean’s eyes went wide. It would be just their luck for him and Sam to have stumbled upon the most fertile sisters in America. They'd both be stuck with a pair of hyphenating rich girls. And if they both had kids by these girls, would they be cousins—or something more? 

“Don't bust a gasket,” Melissa scoffed. “You’re fine.” She tossed her hair over her shoulders and skipped off the pavilion. 

Dean placed his own palm over the cloth that covered the mark on his chest. He tapped it twice, for luck, and blew out a deep breath.

 

::

 

 _Sam’s weight on his chest made it hard to breathe._  

 _In Dean's defense, he hadn’t asked him to do that. Or even let him. He’d woken up to Sam sitting on him, checking out the blade Dean kept under his pillow. His hand slid under there to be sure. Yep. Gone._  

 _No, it wasn’t gone. It was being tossed back and forth between nimble hands._  

 _“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean kept his voice cautious, casual._  

 _“I want to carve my name on you. I was waiting for your permission.”_  

 _Well, the second part was good. Better than the first part._  

 _There were a few potential approaches. Dean went with his old standby. “You really want to mess with this perfection?”_  

 _Sam didn’t even crack a smile._  

 _“And I want your name. Right here.” He tapped his finger over his own heart. “Incised. Not a tattoo. They can remove tattoos.”_  

 _Leave it to Sam to use a word like ‘incised.’ “You do know that Dad would murder you, and then me. Probably the other way around.”_  

_“Fuck him.”_

_Sam was serious. Sam also had a knife, and a grip on Dean’s collar._  

 _“Sammy.”_  

 _Whether it was the coolness of the blade or the heat of Sam’s crotch over his navel, every sensation assaulting his teenage nervous system made Dean so hard he was dizzy._  

 _Thankfully, Sam was sitting high enough on his body not to notice. He was busy watching the silver encircle the fabric over his brother’s taut nipple._  

 _“Let me just put an S.”_  

 _Dean’s voice broke a little on the first attempt. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, cause he'll never figure that out.”_  

 _“I don’t care what he thinks.” Sam gritted his teeth, hazel eyes fiercer than Dean had ever seen them._  

 _That didn’t seem to bother his dick one bit. In fact, there was apparently something within him that thought this was a good time to send another wave of heat down his chest and plumpen his cock up even more._  

 _“I don’t care either, Sam,” he managed. “But you have to pick your battles.”_  

 _Dean’s voice shook, breaths coming thready and thin. He wasn't nearly as in control of the situation as he should have been._  

_Sam bit his lower lip.So young. Wouldn't be thirteen for another month. He was already quicker than Dean, a better shot, and nearly as ferocious when he had to be. Dean could still pin him in a matter of seconds and those scrawny arms didn't pack much of a punch, but when it mattered, Sam came through. As a matter of fact, he had put a bullet in a Chapalu in time to spare Dean the nasty gash that bitch had wanted to put on his face._

_Technically, he owed the kid._  

_Technically, he was talking himself into a terrible idea._

_“Why you want to mark me so bad, Sam?”_

_Sam dragged the blade over Dean’s neck, drawing an oval outline, applying just enough pressure to break the skin. It took Dean a second to recall that he had let Lena latch onto him like a friggin’ bloodsucker. He probably had a real nice hickey showing up by now._

_At the rate Sam was going, he was going to remove the skin she had stained._  

 _“Why are you scared of me? Do you think I would ever hurt you?” He used the tip of the blade to cut a slice in the fabric. Then he ripped it right down the center._  

 _Dean gasped in spite of himself. There was no use trying to explain it away._  

 _“How about you put something else?” he said. “Something we’ll both know, that won’t get us killed.”_  

 _“I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”_  

 _It was a sweet sentiment, except Sam was asking for permission to hurt him._  

_“You don't want to disinfect that thing or something?”_

_“I did.”_  

 _“And I slept through that?”_  

 _Sam shrugged._  

 _“All right, stealth ninja. Go for it.”_  

 _“Really?” Sam’s eyes lit up like every Christmas they’d never had._  

 _“Make it small. And hurry up. Who knows when dad’s getting back.”_  

 _“I’ll know.” Sam murmured, already focused on his task._  

 _“How?”_  

 _His brother glanced up, eyes shuttered. “I just will.”_  

 _Dean had pretty much stopped questioning him on this stuff. Sam would make these little statements of fact that no one could verify in the moment, but he always turned out to be right. It was kind of uncanny, kind of cool. Just another Sam thing._  

 _The tip of the knife nipped at the skin over his ribs. This was a bad idea. And it didn’t get better once Sam started cutting deeper. It burned like a son of a bitch._  

 _“Fuck,” Dean hissed. “I thought you were engraving, not collecting bone marrow.”_  

 _“Just be still. I’ve done a lot of research on this,” Sam said patiently. “They’ve been doing it like this in tribal societies for thousands of years.”_  

 _“Oh, well that’s comforti—Shit!” Dean brought his fist down hard against the mattress and bit back the yell that clawed at his throat._  

 _He’d had far worse injuries than this, but never on purpose._  

 _“Does it hurt?”_  

 _“Naw. It feels like a fucking massage.”_  

 _Sam didn’t say ‘good,’ but Dean had a distinct feeling the sadistic little bastard was thinking it. He certainly didn’t let up or change his mind or lessen the intensity of his gaze on what he was doing._  

 _Dean closed his eyes and silently recited Latin incantations to himself. It actually helped. When Sam was done, he leaned up to admire his handiwork._  

 _“So, what’d you give me?”_  

 _“You’ll see.”_  

 _At that moment, all Dean could see was traces of blood and gnarly little strips on the bed beside him._  

 _Wait. Dude— “Is that my fucking skin?”_  

 _Sam nodded, a proud grin plastered on his face. Dean couldn’t even be mad. Sam had asked permission; he’d given it._  

 _“You happy?”_  

 _The kid nodded again. Then, he leaned forward and placed a kiss on the unbloodied side of Dean’s chest._  

 _Dean wrapped a hand around the back of his brother’s neck, the contact making his whole palm sing with electricity. “You’re one nutty kid, you know that?”_  

 _Sam sat up, still smirking like all the canaries were in trouble. “Now, you do me.”_  

_“What?” Dean gaped at the proffered knife._

_“I want you to mark me.”_  

 _He refused to take it. “I’m not going to cut you, Sam.”_  

 _“Why not?”_  

 _“I’m just not.”_  

_“That’s not fair.” The smile vanished. That godawful, nails-on-chalkboard voice was back._

_“Get up,” Dean said, going for a tone that brooked no argument. “We need to clean up this mess.”_  

 _Sam was so busy pouting, he didn’t even a fight when Dean wrapped his hands around his waist and placed him on the floor._  

_It was an interesting time to note that despite all the pain—or perhaps, because of it—Dean’s wood hadn’t wilted one bit._

 

::

 

Dean adjusted himself in his pants and took his time walking back up towards the house. If you could call it a house. It was a few bricks away from being a castle. 

Peeking into the massive tent where some truly awful dancing was going on, he grinned at a little kid in the corner, curled up and sleeping under somebody’s jacket.

 

::

 

 _He’d tried. He really had. He’d coiled his body into a tight fetal position, pulled the scratchy army-issue blanket over his ears and tried to sleep. But Dean could not stop his teeth from chattering like a fucking cartoon character. He was frozen to his bones._  

 _There wasn’t anything they could do about it. Dad was broke. There were two queen beds in this shitty room, and ever the martyr, Dean had volunteered to sleep on the floor. Usually it’s no big deal. Here, it was a slab of ice beneath paper-thin ‘carpet.’_  

 _He was shaking like a leaf on a tree in a Chicago breeze, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He slid into the bed next to Sam._  

 _Once the kid had scooted over, Dean was careful not to touch a single inch of him. As alluring as all that warmth was, Dean kept to his side, hugging himself and trying to get back up to a normal body temperature._  

 _It didn’t seem that he’d been asleep for more than a few minutes when something stirred him awake. Poor Sam was shivering. Dean’s skin was probably making his little brother cold._  

 _No, wait... That wasn’t the problem._  

 _If the kid was even trying to be discreet, he was failing miserably. He was also making Dean painfully hard._  

 _Dean lay there with his eyes open in the dark, ignoring his dick while his brother beat off like a maniac. The mattress shook. Sammy trying to choke back his rapid-fire breaths made Dean want to run from the room screaming._  

 _Afflicted as he was, Dean had to hand it to him. The kid had stamina. And finesse. It seemed to go on forever. Every time it had to be over, Sam’s arm would speed up for a second and then, freeze. Next thing you know, he’d be slow-stroking himself again in long, smooth pulls._  

 _Finally, Sam’s lithe body went rigid. A quiet groan stifled in his throat. He let out a quivering breath—and whispered Dean’s name._  

 _Dean stayed perfectly silent and still._  

 _“I know you're up,” Sam’s whisper shocked him to the core._  

 _Dean didn't reply._  

 _“Can I…” Sam’s hand stung like fire on his hip._  

 _Dean knocked it away. “No!” he hissed. “Go to sleep.”_  

_He rolled over, turning his back to Sam, wishing he knew a prayer that would purify them both._

 

::

 

“Amen.”

Everyone in the place echoed the father of the bride. He pecked his daughter’s cheek. 

Dean raised his drink, draining it before the schlub making the next speech got to the good part. He slammed his glass on the table and ignored the stares.

 

::

 

 _Sam’s fist rested on the table while he read. His finger curled and uncurled idly. Dean stood by the stove, watching the spoon in the mug of coffee slide around the brim of the cup. That would have been fine if Sam had been touching it at all._  

 _“Don’t do that.” Dean cast an anxious glance at the door, even though they were alone in the house._  

 _Their dad was on a supply run. The guy whose place they were squatting in hadn’t been around since he’d dropped off the keys the first day._  

 _Sam rolled his eyes, but the spoon slid to a stop._  

 _Dean was happy to pretend it had never happened. “What’s your deal?”_  

 _“I did it,” Sam announced. “I fucked Karen Fischer.”_  

_Pride. He was supposed to be proud. It had been his suggestion. He’d insisted on it. That girl had been following Sam around like a cat with her tail in the air for the entire two weeks they’d been in this town._

_“You really ought to hit that,” he’d said._  

 _And Sammy did it._  

_Now, Dean was supposed to smile, pat him on the shoulder, sit down across from him at the table and press him for details. So he did, disregarding the hollow ache in his chest and smirked, “So, how was it?”_

_“Slimy.”_  

 _Dean chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it is, a little. All part of the fun.”_  

 _“You’ve been with so many girls.” Sam tapped his finger on the table and Dean’s cup of coffee rattled against the wood._  

 _He picked it up. “I like girls.”_  

 _“Yeah. I know.” Sam looked like he might be sick._  

_“Don’t you?”_

_He shrugged._  

 _Dean wasn’t exactly sure he was ready for this conversation, but he dove in. “Do you like guys?”_  

_“I like you,” Sam replied, staring at his plate._

_Dean hated his relief at those words. He’d wanted to think maybe Sam was just gay and since Dean was the closest guy… Anyway, it didn’t matter. It was one more thing they couldn’t have._  

 _“Sammy. We’ve been over this,” he said because he was supposed to._  

 _“I know.”_  

 _Dean stood to make a plate._  

 _“I just… I do. I love you.”_  

 _Dean gave the kid extra bacon, even though it meant there would be less for him. Then, he just piled it all on there. Extra eggs, too. Sam was still growing. Dean wasn’t anymore._  

 _He sat the food down and dug a fork out of the drawer._  

 _Dean propped himself against the counter with his hands in his pockets, seriously wishing they could be done with this conversation for all time._  

 _Sam looked down at his breakfast. “I’m never going to love anyone else.”_  

 _“Nah, don’t say that,” Dean blurted._  

 _“It’s true.”_  

 _Dean shook his head and tried to think of what he should be saying: ‘You’ll grow out of it,’  ‘there’s plenty of fish in the sea’ —None of it ringing true, even in his head._  

 _“Eat,” he said._  

_“‘M not hungry.” Sam didn’t budge. Didn’t lift a finger as the plate scraped across the table and off, shattering at Dean’s feet._

 

::

 

A few old ladies gasped at the noise. The swarm of young guys hovering around Sam laughed and applauded the broken glass as the waitstaff scurried to clean up. 

Just like Jessica said, there were four of them. Definitely not frat material. Nerds, like Sam. 

Dean had been introduced and had already forgotten their names. He wanted to be happy for Sam, standing there surrounded by friends. He really did. 

But it wasn’t that simple.

 

::

 

 _Sam was surrounded by a bunch of guys, just shooting the shit. Dean was cool with that. He wasn’t so selfish that he couldn’t let his brother have friends._  

 _The only reason he was there at all was that Sam had asked Dean to pick him up from school. Dad had the car. They’d have to walk, but Sam had a bad feeling._  

 _When most people got a bad feeling, they’d chalk it up to a foul bean burrito. Sam got a bad feeling and shit went down._  

_On Dean’s second look at Sam with his buddies, the guy behind Sam had grabbed his arms tight behind his back, while the one in front of him held his backpack high and dumped all the contents onto the sidewalk._

_They were all laughing except for Sammy._  

 _New town. Same shit._  

 _Sam was always the new kid. Always a little too weird, never knew how to talk to people. Maybe their dad was right and Dean needed to stop stepping in front of him._  

 _Sam could handle himself, even against four of these assholes. Still, Dean started to walk over, real cool, to be close enough to see what Sam would do._  

 _The lead goon picked up one of Sam’s books and said something that made the rest of them howl. Sam bucked, wrestling to get free. The guy tossed the book at Sam's feet—and they let him go. They were still guffawing as they started to walk away._  

 _That was it. They were just fucking around with him. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but not all that malicious. Dean let down his guard a little bit and hung back. He’d give Sam some space to recover from his humiliation._  

 _Sam put his head down like a bull and charged the first guy. Sloppy. Not the way they were trained. First of all, they knew better than to pick fights with civilians. Too many injuries, a cop would come calling, and that never ended well. Secondly, though, and maybe more importantly: Sam knew better moves than that._  

 _He was flailing like a clueless brat and getting his ass handed to him. Either he was trying to conceal the fact that he was trained by a Marine in hand to hand combat, going easy on them by fighting badly on purpose, or he had let them under his skin. In any case, it didn’t look good._  

 _“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean mumbled to himself and picked up his pace._  

 _As Sam struggled back to his feet, the lead asswipe noticed Dean coming and pointed. “No way. Allen, look. There he is. This your boyfriend, freak?”_  

 _They all laughed._  

_Dean stopped; his heart raced. Was Sam telling people Dean was his boyfriend?_

 

 _Not cool. Not cool, Sam._  

_Boyfriend. Wow._

_Maybe someday, they could go somewhere nobody knew them and…_  

 _Not cool, Dean._  

 _There wasn’t enough therapy in the world to fix these fucked up Winchester kids._  

 _Sam’s school shit was strewn all over the ground. One notebook. Dean picked it up to get a better look at a pretty decent drawing of his own face. His name was scribbled about a thousand times around it._  

 _Dean rubbed a hand down his face. “Oh boy.”_  

 _He didn't even know what was happening until he was face down on the concrete with a knee in his back and a fist pummeling the side of his head. That always hurt like shit and made his ear ring. Still, he considered options for throwing this kid without hurting him too badly._  

 _One second, the little fucker was raining blows on his back._  

 _And then he wasn't anymore. Somebody was screaming, and it was raining on Dean’s shoulders._  

 _Sam and the band of assholes stared up at the sky directly above Dean’s head. Once he was on his feet, he did the same. Suspended over him, in mid-air, was a squealing teenager with a dark spot at his crotch._  

 _Piss. Dean had just been pissed on. That was, of course, the least of his worries. It was just gross._  

 _Sam’s face wasn’t a mask of anger anymore. He looked every bit as freaked as the rest of them. His eyes connected with Dean’s, wide and on the verge of panic._  

_Dean looked up again and shouted to the guy in the air, “What are you, man? Some kind of fucking alien?”_

_“Help me! Help me... Todd!” The kid sniveled and struggled against the air._  

 _It would have been funny, except that it wasn’t._  

 _“Come on, Sammy. Let’s get out of here before the rest of these fuckers start floating.” Dean dragged him away by the arm._  

 _Fuck the books. They had to split. This was the definition of a bad scene._  

 _They were halfway up the block when the guy screamed. The fall wasn't going to kill him. Matching pair of broken legs maybe. That's what he got for being a dick. Not Dean’s problem._  

 _They booked all the way back to the run-down house where they were staying. Dean bolted the door behind him. Sam put his hands on his knees; he was breathing too fast._  

_This shit was finally catching up with him, which meant Dean couldn’t have the meltdown that was pounding at his temples. “What the fuck, Sam?”_

_“I told you, something bad—”_  

 _“Hey. Hey. Buddy, it’s cool. Okay? It’s fine.” Dean steadied himself on Sam’s shoulders. “Did you see the look on his face?”_  

 _It took a moment, but Sam let himself smile._  

 _Sparks. Always sparks. Dean held his face in both hands and looked him over: warm and still breathing hard, but starting to relax. “You okay?”_  

 _Sam nodded and took a deep breath. Dean mirrored him, wiping a thumb over his chin._  

 _He wanted to kiss him so bad. Just once to let himself go and have what he wanted. But out there where those jerks could see. And their father. Everyone in the whole fucked-up world._  

 _Sam licked his lips and tilted back his chin._  

 _Dean breathed through his mouth._  

 _Sam wasn’t breathing at all. He was waiting._  

 _Dean took a step back and gave his arm a brotherly pat. The kid looked so crestfallen, Dean’s heart stuttered in his chest._  

 _“You need to go get cleaned up. I’ll…”_  

 _He had no idea what he was going to do._  

 _When Sam left the room, Dean collapsed into a chair, staring at the wall._  

 

::

 

Somehow, he had missed most of the slides. 

He was looking straight at them, but his eyes didn’t register much of anything. 

People around him were laughing, pointing, commenting about the larger than life images being projected on the wall of the tent. Sam and Jessica on the beach. Sam and Jessica skiing. Sam in his cap and gown with Jessica looking at him like he’d hung a second moon. 

In fact, her face was awash with fondness and devotion in every picture. 

Dean knew the feeling and he hated it. 

Sam and Jessica on bikes. Sam and Jessica on horses. Sam and Jessica rock climbing, on jet skis, in scuba gear. These two might as well get married and have a kid. They’d done every other damn thing. 

Sam looked happy in the photos—that big, beautiful smile. It was a better life than Dean had ever dared imagine for his brother, who certainly never would have gotten to ride a damn horse if he had stuck with Dean. 

More images: Jessica with a puppy. Sam and Jessica all dressed up for something. Sam with his nose in a fat book.

 

::

 

 _Their dad stood by his bed. When Dean entered the room, the old man looked up from the book. Dean’s backpack lay open on his bed like a spilled secret. When John closed it, there was a too loud boom from all the air being forced out._  

 _What the fuck?_  

 _Dean didn't say it out loud because he wasn't in the mood for the smack it would earn him. Instead, he let his eyes do the talking._  

 _His father showed him the cover of the book. Dean’s own book, that he had stolen from the library and carefully concealed in his rickety underwear drawer._  

 _“Doesn't quite cover it, does it?” John dropped it on Dean’s bed. “Because that's not what he is.”_  

 _“Sam is not a what.” Dean didn’t stand up to his father often, because he wasn't sure how to do it without Sam._  

 _“That jury is still out on that. What we do know is that he’s ... something else.”_  

 _“Better, you mean,” Dean pressed. “He’s more than we are.”_  

 _Sam was a trained killer who never took an unnecessary kill shot. Sam was a straight-A student who had been in three different schools that year alone. The kid liked vegetables, for fuck’s sake. Raw. Sam was a saint among boys._  

 _John shook his head. “Different. I figured that out... Well, not soon enough to save your mother. Your brother is a potentially dangerous, unknown entity.”_  

 _As much as he wanted to, Dean couldn’t disagree with that. “Then why on earth would you train him to be a hunter?”_  

 _John folded his hands behind his back, chin damn near to the ceiling. “Because he’s still my son. And because we need him committed to this cause. Any other Hunter would have ended him the moment they figured it out. The one other person on earth who knows about this suggested I turn him over to a Specialist to raise. Someone who deals with cases like this. But I decided it would be better to let Sam grow up with our family, so he’d be loyal to us no matter what he becomes. That way, we can always use him for good.”_  

 _Dean’s throat started to tighten before he could squeeze out the words, “Use him.”_  

 _“Sam is a weapon, Dean. Either we wield him, or someone else does.”_  

 _“Dad.”_  

 _His father’s eyes were so dark. Damn near black and emotionless. “As it turns out, whatever else he may be, Sam is human enough for some pretty strong emotions.”_  

 _It was such a hard turn, that it almost knocked Dean from his feet._  

 _“Of course, true to form, it’s in the most unnatural way possible.”_  

 _Dean chewed his cheek to keep himself from speaking._  

 _His father ran a probing finger over the base of the lamp. He wouldn’t find any dust there. He wouldn’t find anything out of line where Dean was concerned._  

 _“You must have noticed that your brother has developed some strong, inappropriate emotions toward you.”_  

_Salt and copper filled Dean’s mouth._

_“There’s no reason to feel bad about it. It's not your fault Sam is ... like this. And the way I see it, the only  thing better than loyalty is devotion.”_  

 _Dean nearly choked on his own blood._  

 _“He’ll do anything you say. It’ll make it so much easier on all of us when the time comes.”_  

 _“The time?” Dean’s voice was so quiet, he could barely hear himself._  

 _“I need you to be on board with whatever needs to be done.”_  

 _“Which…” Dean’s eye slid over the useless book before they locked onto his father’s grim glare._  

 _“Is whatever it’ll be,” John said firmly. ”We can’t afford to be sentimental about this, Dean. We have to think about the big picture.”_  

 _Mute, Dean nodded. What could he possibly say?_  

 _“If Sam needs to be purged, we purge him. If he needs to be detained or exorcised—”_  

 _“Exorcised? You think…” He had never even entertained the possibility that his brother could be possessed._  

 _After all, Sam had never intentionally hurt anyone, had he? What kind of demon likes salad?_  

 _“I don’t know. No one does, yet. The arrangement with the Specialist is to take him in when he reaches maturity. Then, we determine the nature of this ... problem, and decide whether or not Sam can go on serving good. Or if other measures need to be taken.”_  

 _Dean couldn't even bring himself to repeat the bitter words his father had spewed so easily. Other measures._  

 _“In the meantime, we watch him. Keep him in line. Keep doing what you're doing.”_  

 _What Dean was doing was trying not to throw up. His knees were wobbling. His father hadn’t broken eye contact once the entire time. HIs gaze had just gotten darker. More intense._  

 _“You got it? You understand what’s at stake here?”_  

 _“Yes, sir.”_  

_John gave a mollified nod. It was all Dean could do not to sink under the weight of the hand on his shoulder._

 

::

 

Dean turned in time to see Sam’s hand jerk away as if he'd been burned, his expression changing from pleasant to sickened, as if Dean had skipped the deodorant. 

Sam turned and looked at Jessica's sister, who appeared to be barely tolerating her mother’s animated story. He leaned forward and sniffed. The cold chuckle that followed was not amusement, but disgust. “You haven't changed at all, have you?” 

Sam hadn't had any time for him since the photo debacle. He was coming to say goodbye. Instead, he said that, and looked at Dean like he was composed entirely of shit. 

Then, Jessica was waving at the cheering crowd like a rock star. Sam saluted everyone, climbed into the limousine behind his wife and reached out to shut the door. 

This was familiar: Sam leaving and Dean letting Sam go, for his own good.

 

::

 

_Everything was going according to well-laid plan. It had damn well better, after over a year of plotting._

_Dean hadn’t slept on the night of that insane conversation with his father. He’d hardly slept for a week. He couldn’t keep any food down. He rarely got sick, but it was in the grip of fever that it came to him—what he needed to do._

_It all depended on what Dad meant by maturity. If it had been puberty, Dean would have been too late already. And in dealing with the paranormal, it was rarely as arbitrary as 18._

_Most likely, their father was planning to take Sam to this Specialist when his bones stopped growing, which at the rate Sam was going, might never happen._

_That was good. It gave Dean time. And he was going to need all the time he could get to do this right._

_As much as he’d been tempted to send Sam off the very same day, Dean orchestrated the thing like fucking Mozart._

_It had started with a visit to the counselor at Sam’s school. As he’d suspected, between Sam’s raw smarts, grades, work ethic, and their itinerant family sob story, the kid was an Ivy League shoo-in._

_There was one thing his father had been wrong about: Sam would not do anything Dean told him to do. Every time he brought up the school idea, Sam would narrow his eyes and give the same answer, “I’m not leaving you.”_

_It was nearly a month later when Dean decided how to fix that. They’d been sitting on the sofa in some cabin, watching a horror flick. Sam stretched himself out like a kid on his first date and hung a warm arm over Dean’s shoulder. He pressed their knees together, so far from inconspicuous that it was almost comical._

_Dean was Joan of Arc with a wrongful blaze licking at his feet, working its way, cruel and unerring up his spine. The heat pulsed at the hand on his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut, “What you want from me, Sam? It’s disgusting.”_

_He stood and left the room._

_Eleven months later, Sam packed up and left the state._

_Dean hardly spoke to him that year. He kept his distance and prayed Sam would keep growing._

_Despite the fact that Dean had told him not to call, not to write, to stay away, Sam stared through that window with his palm and forehead pressed to the glass. There wasn't any use standing there waiting for the damn bus to roll away. The triumph of constructing the plan had been accompanied with a long, slow gutting realization of what came next. The horror of never seeing Sam again._

_The longer Dean stood there, the closer he was to losing the caustic contents of his empty stomach. He hadn't been able to eat for days. Too sick inside, and now hollow._

_Dean turned and walked away on shaking legs before the scream could claw its way out of his throat. Walked away from the bus station, through the town, back to the house where his father wouldn't return for a full six days. The arrangements were made. He’d given Sam a good, solid head start. The rest was out of his hands._

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean rarely got to see the ocean.

Just when he thought he might, a call had come in: a lead on a vampire nest outside of Boise. Usually, that was at least a two-man job. Bobby would tear into him for days for not calling for backup, but Dean had been hunting solo a long damn time. And he would go on that way until it finally finished him.

It was clear and cool. A good day to drive. A good day to turn his music up too loud, put this shit behind him, and pretend it had never happened.

Sam was married, on his honeymoon, and about to have a kid. Good for Sam.

Sincerely good for Sammy. What the hell difference did it make in Dean’s life? None whatso-fucking-ever, that’s what.

There were vampires waiting for him. There would always be some Big Bad waiting. So he did what he always did: packed up and rolled out. Fuck the ocean.

Sam riding off into the sunset, Dean heading east on a job. There was poetic justice in there somewhere.

On the outskirts of Reno, he stopped for gas, paid in cash and stepped back outside to find Sam sitting on the hood of the Impala. His arms were folded over his chest, like he’d been waiting an hour. Like they’d been on the road together all this time.

Dean paused at the door, searching the parking lot for Ashton Kutcher, or possibly far worse, Jessica Moore-Winchester with a Polaroid. But there was nothing. No glints off any glass or metal save Baby’s. He took a quiet breath and tamped down on the heat in his chest before strolling over.

“What happened to Acapulco?" he asked, aiming for nonchalant.

“This is more important. So, what are we hunting?”

Dean jerked the nozzle out of the tank and recapped it. ”You ain’t hunting nothing. You hate hunting.”

Sam shrugged. ”You love it."

"I don't love it, it has to be done.” He sounded like an asshole.

That was good. Better an asshole than a lovesick teenager. Sam was supposed to be halfway to wherever by now. Dean was supposed to be over this shit. The little reunion was over. On with life. Not … whatever this was.

“It has to be done, and you love it,” Sam countered evenly.

There was never any point arguing with him. "Still doesn't answer Acapulco,” Dean said.

“It was Bora Bora. I haven't seen my brother in 5 years. I'm not going on vacation.”

"And your wife is fine with that.”

“She understands," is all the response he got.

Dean gave his brother a good, hard look before he nodded. “You had breakfast?”

He’d passed a Biggerson’s on I-80. Dean ordered eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, hash browns, coffee, orange juice and a danish—while Sam had oatmeal, and fruit. Some things never changed. Dean didn’t say a single word while he ate, because some things did.

When he was finished, Dean tossed his napkin onto his plate and sat back in his chair. The simple act of eating had always been meditative, and now his mind was clear.

He had to ask: “You really want to hunt?”

“It's been a while. Could be fun.”

Dean couldn’t believe the stupidity coming out of this brainiac. “Was it ever fun?”

“No, it was, uh… no.”

“So, what is it you really want?”

Sam’s mouth flapped open as he turned to watch a sixteen-wheeler pull into the parking lot. “I was thinking, maybe, if I did this for you, you'd do something for me.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause that’s how I operate. You know you could ask me for anything, Sam. Anything in my power.” It was a lot to admit.

The words were heavy on his tongue, on his mind. More food would be good.

“I want you to stick around.”

Dean raised his hand for the check.

Sam leaned over the table. “Stay. Help me out with this.”

“What, exactly, am I supposed to help you with, Sam?”

“Jess. The kid. Everything.” There was that face again. The ‘Dean, help! Dad wants me to shoot a cute, defenseless chupacabra’ face.

Sam had clearly gotten a bad batch of Vicodin. “Dude, I'm a hunter. You got ghost problems, I’m your guy. What you need is a nanny.”

“I need you.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut for the two seconds it took to crush the heat crawling over him. “Sam.”

A pair of huge hands lay flat on the table. “Dean. I need you to do this for me. I did what you asked. I didn’t ... five years, I left you alone. Just like you wanted. I wouldn’t have… I just thought you’d want to be there.”

Sam was apologizing for inviting Dean to his wedding. Were they that messed up? “It’s fine.”

“I need this. I need ... Don't make me beg.”

 

::

 

Jessica had hardly put the fork in her mouth before she hummed her approval.

Sam grinned, “Told you.”

She finished chewing the first bite and turned her eyes to Dean. “Wow.”

This was not a thing a lot of people knew about him. “It’s all in the ingredients.”

“Well, it wouldn’t matter what ingredients we had. Neither Sam nor I could make this happen. You do this alone, you earn your keep.”

“Well, I’m not going to be staying long, but while I am, I can do more than cook.”

“I don’t doubt that.” She leered, just this side of suggestive.

If it were anyone else under any other circumstances, Dean would flirt back out of sheer habit. Sam’s smile was guileless, but he couldn’t be as oblivious as he looked. What had Dean gotten himself into?

“Sam, honey, you’re on dish duty. I, personally, have a shitload of work to do tonight. You boys behave.” Jessica kissed Sam’s cheek and whisked out of the kitchen.

“Did she just say ‘shitload’?”

Sam grinned and started collecting dishes like he was told.

::

So late it was early, Dean sat in bed, not really watching some late-nite talk show. In reality, he’d been watching the wall, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come. It was all too safe and strange holed up in Sam’s house. Sam’s wife’s house, to be precise.

Sam’s wife...

Jessica Moore-Winchester was paying the bills while Sammy finished up his law degree. Apparently, she was doing pretty good, because the place was a classy, two-story, upper middle-class home in the burbs. They even had a pool out back. For all Dean knew, it had been a wedding gift from her parents. He hadn't asked. He was a guest in his sister-in-law’s house, on his way to becoming a personal chef.

That was fine, right? Why the hell not? It was what Sammy wanted. And what Sammy wants…

There was a small knock and a brief pause before a shaggy head poked in. “Hey. You still up?”

“Nope.” Dean sounded casual, but he was suddenly hyper-aware of himself: propped up on the firm pillows, ankles crossed, hands folded over his now-churning belly.

“Whatcha up to?”

It was a dumb question. He should have made fun of Sam, but let it pass and gestured at the TV.

“Nice.”

Dean gave as much of a smile as he could muster and pointedly did not watch Sam step into the room and shut the door.

“Do you mind if I…"

Sam took up a hell of a lot of space on a queen bed. Even without their bodies touching, heat rolled off him like a city street under the summer sun. That broad chest rose and fell with each quiet breath. The length of his legs tugged the eye along like a work of art.

Without a word, Dean stood up to go to the bathroom.

He perched on the toilet, fully clothed, with his head in his hands long enough to be taking a dump. Then, he splashed cold water on his face and squinted in the mirror.

This … thing. It had never really gone away, but it should be better now. It was never all that out of character for Sam. Weird kid has inappropriate thoughts about his brother? Yeah, sure.

Volatile, emotional, unpredictable Sam at two years old, at five, at nine, staring off into space until Dean called him a few times. He’d blink and get back to his homework or whatever it was. Eventually, he'd stopped, but he'd done it often and long enough to keep Dean worrying about his little brother.

So, sure. Sam was freaky, but Dean was a soldier, for fuck’s sake. He should be able to clamp down on any emotion that didn't serve him or the greater good. And this madness didn't serve anybody. It just made it hard to breathe with Sam in the same room.

If Dad or Bobby knew about this, they’d have tied him down and exorcised. Dean flushed. With any luck, Sam had carried his ass back up to his marital bed.

But when did Dean Winchester ever catch a break?

His brother was lounging where he’d landed, an arm folded behind his head, one of those mile-long legs bent. He grinned at something on the screen. Those goddamn dimples. Ridiculous.

Dean cleared his throat to be sure his voice didn’t crack as he aimed for an octave lower than usual. “I'm gonna turn in.”

Sam nodded. But didn’t budge.

Dean scratched his scalp. Was he going to have to kick the kid out?

He sat at the foot of the bed, trying to focus on what Sam found so amusing on TV. “Did you follow me? Earlier. Did you follow me out of town?”

“I can’t explain it, Dean. I got my in my car and took turns until I was here.”

Dean kept his eyes glued to the screen.

Sam was sitting forward, shifting on the bed. “That’s part of why I need you to stay. This weird stuff … It hasn’t happened in … a really long time. It’s like it just switched back on.

Oh. So, Sam did need a hunter. That’s all it was. Sam needed Dean, but not like that. Not like he used to back then.

So, what? Dean wasn’t going to cry about it. Why should he want that? He shouldn’t, therefore, he didn’t. Simple as that. “You know what, Sam. If you ain’t in mortal danger right this second, we can do this in the morning. I need to get some sleep.”

“I guess you want … Yeah, okay.” Sam chuckled, like it just occurred to him that he couldn’t sleep in the same bed.

This weirdness must have had him shook up. Well, he was going to have to wait. Dean had the shakes of his own.  
On his way to the door, Sam hesitated, as though he had something to say. But he left in silence.

Dean spent most of the night staring into the dark.

 

::

 

The stubble on Dean’s neck was starting to itch. He would have never believed he’d find himself in a fancy-schmancy baby boutique in San Francisco, arguing over paints that were made out of olive oil and grass-fed goat milk - all of it equally nauseating. And he still couldn’t figure out why people needed organic clothing. It’s not like the kid’s gonna eat its onesies.

He frowned down at Jess’ latest color choices. “So, even if it’s a little dude?”

She flashed pastel swatches like a hand of cards. “Neutral. Yellow, orange, green, animals.”

“You’re the boss.”

“Good you know that.” There it was again.

That curl of the lip. The flutter of the lashes. Dean Winchester was an expert, and this chick was flirting with him.

Not just any chick. Sam’s wife.

He put his hands on his hips, all business, perusing the color charts on the wall. “And Sam’s on board with that? Neutral?”

“Sam is easy. You’re putting up more of a fight than he ever would.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… offering my opinion. I think a boy’s room should be blue, not…” Dean pointed at the nearest option. “That.”

“Duly noted. We’re going neutral.” Jessica pointed to the Daffodil milk paint.

He grabbed a couple of cans of the colors she indicated and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Sam was in class, and Dean had been appointed assistant for the day. He walked a few steps behind Jessica, loaded down with bags and materials for the nursery. He checked out her ass, but that was unavoidable.

Out of nowhere, she slowed her pace to ask, “So, I’m kind of confused. You guys were really close and then... fallout?”

“Doesn't sound like you're all that confused to me.” He didn’t have anything to say about it.

She didn’t push.

Dean followed her down a winding, thin street where she stopped in front of a second-hand store where one of those creepy, faceless baby mannequins modeled an AC/DC shirt. “What do you think?”

Assuming she meant the shirt, not the doll, Dean answered, “I think Sammy done good.”

He meant it, too. There’s nothing not to like about this smart-ass girl, who wasn’t at all stuffy. Plus, she had wicked taste in music.

Jess shook her head in shame. “If we leave it up to Sam, the baby would be listening to WHAM!”

Dean raised one of his bag-laden hands, as if taking an oath. “I can not be held responsible for my brother’s taste in music. I tried.”

She held the door open so he could enter the shop. “What can I hold you responsible for, then?”

“Huh?”

“Sam said you practically raised him.” She shuffled through clothes on a maternity rack.

A sales clerk joined them with a simpering smile that made Dean want to get violent.

“You two expecting?”

“Nope. Just her.” Dean turned to Jessica and said, “Sam exaggerates.”

Jessica paid for the shirt and the rest of the overpriced items she’d selected. Fifty dollars for a pair of used booties. There was more dignity in robbery at gunpoint—but it wasn’t his money.

As they made their way up the cobblestone street, Jessica unloaded one of the bags from Dean. “I was really hoping to get to meet your dad.”

“Yeah well... that's not likely.”

“Sam said they never got along.”

“Now, that’s an understatement,” Dean said. “He probably told you, our mom died shortly after Sam was born.”

She nodded, listening with solemn eyes.

Whatever Sam had told her, Dean would add his version to the mix. “I don't think our dad blamed Sam. It was just hard on him. So, he was hard on us. And himself.”

“I’m sure he did the best he could.”

“Yeah.” There wasn’t anything else to say.

Jessica stopped walking so abruptly that Dean had to turn around to watch her sniff the air.

“Am I smelling hot dogs?” She took a huge whiff and started jogging towards the unmistakable scent.

“You know, you can’t eat hot dogs.”

“Says who?”

“Says Dr. Sears, What to Expect, Mayo…”

As they rounded the corner to find the vendor, she put a hand on his shoulder. “Dean, I hate to tell you this, but I’m about to eat a hot dog.”

Seeing as he had no way to stop her, he conceded. “One.”

They both ordered. When the vendor asked for ten bucks, Dean jerked his thumb at Jessica. “She’s the one who’s loaded.”

She took a massive chomp of her hotdog and spoke as she chewed, “As broke as he is, Sam can’t stand for me to pay for things like this.”

“Mrs. Winchester, you will quickly learn that my brother and me are not the same person. You ever even seen Sam eat one of these?” Dean finished his hot dog in three bites.

It took Jess four.

 

::

 

Dean wore his clunky-ass ‘90s headphones while he painted. Even with Sabbath blaring directly into his brain, he sensed when the air changed, but didn’t turn around. If Sam needed something, he’d say so.

Sam hovered until Dean lowered the headphones to his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be studying.”

“I needed a break.” Sam’s eyes flashed up the moment Dean turned.

No way the kid had been staring at his ass.

Dean dropped the brush into the pan and wiped his hands on the work pants Jessica had bought.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Sam jammed his hands into his back pockets.

“Not a problem. I could use a break, too. You got any beer around here?”

“We threw ‘em out so Jess wouldn’t be tempted.”

His chin was pressed to his chest, in something like shame or shyness.

When he didn’t clear the way, Dean twisted sideways to squeeze past Sam and out of the door without making any contact. “I think I’ll make a run.”

“I could come with.”

“That’s all right. I got it.” Dean grabbed his jacket and went out the front door.

Dean had been a house guest for a little under 48 hours, and a trend was already emerging. Everything was easy and relaxed as long as Jessica was around. But when it was just him and Sam in the house or, God forbid, in a room together, he’d be all pins and needles. Dean couldn’t stand to be anxious. And that’s all he was around Sam: nervous and tied up, with an uneasy stomach and dry throat.

He spent an inordinate amount of time at the store, letting the guy behind the counter unload useless information about local brewers before settling on a six pack of his usual, tossing in a bag of pretzels and a couple of Slim Jims.

 

::

It was a little overcast, but a nice enough day. Without thinking, Dean pulled over on the side of a two-lane road and set himself up on the hood with his shoes on the fender and one of his beers in hand. Perfectly content in peaceful avoidance.

Twenty minutes later, tires screeched up slow behind the Impala. A door shut, boots crunched over the gravel.

Dean knocked back a swig before he asked, “Is there a reason you’re following me?”

“I’m not—”

“Okay. Is there a reason you happened to find me out in the middle of fucking nowhere?”

Sam sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I feel … less weird when you’re around.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not any less weird. You’re every bit as weird you as ever were.”

Sam chuckled as he walked to the other side of the car.

“Did you finish your homework?"

Sam reached through the passenger window and helped himself to a bottle. “Having a hard time concentrating.”

“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

“Lot on my mind. I guess.” Sam leaned on the hood with his back to Dean.

Close, but not too close. That was something. Dean gave him the ol’ Winchester classic pep talk. “Yeah, well. You know how it is. You got to hunker down and get ‘er done.”

“Yeah.” Sam was breathing too deep.

He kept stealing glances. Whatever he wanted to say, Dean didn’t want to hear it.

Sam sat on the hood and slid over so they were nearly shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. Dean downed half his bottle and changed the subject, the previous subject having been Sam’s legs. “Dude offered me a job. Patching up clunkers. Something I can do, you know.”

“That’s… That means you’re…” Sam’s voice was quieter than usual.

“I told you, if it’s really that important to you, I’ll stick around as long as I’m actually being helpful.”

“It is that important.”

Dean glared at the hand on his sleeve. It wasn’t even skin on skin. It was skin on sleeve on skin and still felt like being cattle prodded.

Unwelcome.

Bad touch, Sam. Any touch. Just don’t.

Dean wanted to shout. He just waited.

Sam removed the hand and cleared his throat. “Sorry. The other thing.”

“Um, yeah.” Dean had been dreading the other thing.

Dredging up this topic was like poking a dead ghoul: not his idea of a good time. It’s not like he was any stranger to ‘weird stuff.’ It was just that Sam’s particular weird had caused more than its fair share of trouble already.

“I’m just thinking it might be good to have a third opinion.”

Dean gave a hard long look at the concern on his brother’s face for the first time since he’d pulled up. “You don’t trust me.”

“I trust you with my life, Dean. You know that. I just think, maybe, we should call Dad.”

Dean downed the last swig of his beer.

“You might be a little too close to it. To me.” Sam sounded like he had tried to swallow those last two words and damn near choked on them.

If he had any idea.

Dean tossed the last of his beer on the road, but took no relief when the glass bottle shattered. “Yeah, no. We’re not calling Dad.”

“Did he even think about coming?” Sam sounded like a wounded puppy.

Dean studied the toe of his boot. “I’m sure he would have wanted to be there.”

“Did you not even tell him?” Disgruntled puppy.

“I…” Words.

What were the right words? Why had he not prepared for this? He had known it was coming.

“Are you guys not in contact?”

“No, not really.” Just don’t panic.

“What the hell happened?”

“Sam, Dad’s dead.” And there it was.

“What? How? When?” Stunned puppy.

“It was a… hunt. Of course. A bad hunt. Werewolves. It was going fine, and then things went south. That’s all there is to it.”

Sam was looking at him differently now. Narrow eyes narrower. “Why are you lying to me?”

Dean tittered uncomfortably and shifted his feet. “What are you talking about?”

“About Dad. Something about it … You’re not telling the truth.”

“What are you now, a fucking polygraph?” Dean hopped from the hood and went around the car for a second beer, wishing it was an eighth and enough to get him drunk.

“Dad’s dead?” Sam had followed him and was breathing on his face.

“Goddamnit. Yes.” Dean squared his shoulders and stepped toward the trunk, just to put some space between them.

“How?”

“I told you. Fucking werewolves.” Dean tried another tactic: stop running and face the interrogation head on.

Bad move. Too close. Sam peered into his eyes, not backing down an inch.

Dean’s massive kid brother grabbed his arm. “No.”

“Get the fuck off me, Sam!” Dean yanked free and climbed into the car.

His head collapsed onto the steering wheel. Sam slipped into the passenger’s seat, shut the door and mercifully, didn’t say another word.

::

_Dean couldn’t even manage a syllable._

_He held the phone to his head and stared down as his father bled out on the filthy motel carpet._

_Bobby’s voice was loud and clear on the other end. “Dean? That you, son? Talk to me. What’s going on?”_

_It took a full ten minutes before he could speak._

::

_Nine days. It had been nine days before his father had returned, too exhausted to even ask after Sam._

_For twelve more days, Dean earned an Oscar, keeping up with the story: Sam had run away and he had no idea where the kid was._

_On that thirteenth day, three damn weeks after Sam had gotten on that bus, John Winchester looked up from his laptop and said, “Pack up. We hit the road in ten minutes.”_

_They hadn’t taken a case in all that time. His father had sat with his nose in his computer, not telling Dean a thing about what he was researching._

_“Where we heading?”_

_“You’ll see.”_

_They drove another two days, set up in a motel in Mariposa, CA, west of Yosemite._

_Dean had gotten antsier the further west they drove, but his father didn’t say a damn word about the case until he was checking weapons._

_“Now, you listen to me. You’re going to go in, try to talk some sense into him.”_

_“Him?”_

_“He doesn’t come willingly, we take him down.” His father held up his weapon. “Tranks. He needs to see the Specialist. It’s time. If he’s old enough to run like this, he’s out of our control.”_

_“Is this really necessary, Dad?”_

_“You’re kidding, right?”_

_“He’s not going to do anything. Hurt anyone. This is Sammy, for fuck’s sake.”_

_“You don’t see him clearly. I should have warned you sooner, so you didn’t get so attached. But this has to be done,” his father said. “We aren’t leaving our mess out there for some other hunter to deal with.”_

_That wasn’t even something Dean had considered: some other hunter._

_Dean could pretend to go and talk to Sam. Tell him to run again. Lose the name. Go deep. He had thought hiding in plain sight, living a normal life would throw his father off the scent, but John would never give up. Sam would always be running, hiding. And it wasn’t a matter of if, it was only a matter of time before their father caught up._

_“Let’s do this.”_

_“You gotta let him go, Dad.” Dean held up the gun with the tranks._

_He would shoot his father if he had to. Damn the consequences._

_What would those be?_

_He’d stood up to his dad before. With Sam. When they were both little. Over little things. This was not like that._

_“Dean.” John shook his head, pursing his lips in consternation and not a little impatience._

_He’d seen that same face on Sammy a million times. How had he not noticed how alike they were?_

_“I can’t let you—”_

_“Son, you can’t stop me.” HIs father lunged like a panther._

_He disarmed Dean, pistol-whipped him, and before Dean even knew what was happening, he was on the ground. His head screamed in pain as his father stepped over him—_

_Or he tried. Dean grabbed his ankle and sent the old man sailing forward._

_All the details blurred after that. There was a lot of dodging, trying to fake John out and land blows. His father danced around, fists connecting like meteors. Dean got smacked into and over furniture, had his skull cracked against drywall. When he was down, he got kicked, so casually, like it was all a game to his father. When Dean managed to stumble to his feet, he reeled around the spinning room, swinging blind. It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t even close to fair._

_At what should have been the end of it, every cell of his body ached. His father swayed on his feet, spat out a mouthful of blood and growled, “Stay down.”_

_Shaking, Dean used an overturned chair to drag himself up. Pain wrenched a groan free; ribs were likely cracked. Doubled over, one arm tight around his chest, Dean hobbled over between his father and the door. “I can’t let you—”_

_“Goddamnit, boy!” The old man charged him again. But this time, he stopped short._

_John looked down, slack-jawed, at Dean’s fist at his gut. He chuckled before he staggered backward, the knife’s hilt still protruding from the center of a dark, spreading stain._

_It wasn’t calculated. Dean’s muscles weren’t following any orders._

_It just fucking happened._

::

Sam’s arms were around him, Dean’s face buried in his shoulder. When had that happened?

Why did it have to feel so good?

Sam was so warm, so solid. Dean hadn’t felt unsafe before—it’s not like he was some chick who needed to be protected—but damn. And he smelled like… God, it wasn’t fair.

Dean had smelled guys in various stages of cleanliness. Generally speaking, men stank, and they covered it up with cheap cologne. Sam smelled like sin and salvation.

Dean took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Jesus. Jesus, Dean. It’s not your fault. It wasn’t your fault. He attacked you.” Sam caressed his back.

Dean pushed him away. “The fuck do you know about it?”

“I don’t—” Sam swallowed. “It’s like I was there. Like… I could see what you saw.”

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t do that shit, Sam.” Dean pressed his back against the driver’s door.

He had been protecting Sam, but the truth was, he’d known it even back then. Sam was not normal. Sam might be part human, but he wasn’t just human. So what the fuck was he?

Sam’s brow furrowed into canals. “Don’t think that about me.”

“Stop it! Sam, stop fucking … Get out of my head.” He pointed his finger right in his brother’s miserable face.

“I can’t.”

Dean turned away, staring out the windshield. “You got to give me, like, 20 feet for 20 minutes.”

“I can’t. When I first left you, I thought I was going to die.”

Dean rolled his eyes. He could not hear this shit.

Sam huffed. “Like I’d lost a vital organ, Dean. After a while, I just learned how to live without it. I figured it was… just the life I was missing. You know, the hunt, the adrenaline rush. But, since you’ve been here…”

“All right, that’s enough. Shut… shut it down.”

Sam nodded and dragged a wide palm down his face. He settled back in the passenger’s seat with a deep breath. “Sorry.”

He opened the door and got out.

::

 

When Jessica’s heels clicked into the nursery, Sam and Dean were sitting on the floor with their backs against opposite walls. A heap of empty bottles littering the space between them, like corpses after a battle.

Dean tipped his chin up at her. “Nice pantsuit.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “Looks terrific…” Then, an eyebrow raised. “Let me guess. You two had a falling out.”

Dean shook his head. “Tired.”

Jess’ finger landed on Dean’s neck, for just a moment. “You got paint,” she said. Then she offered a hand. “Should I order a pizza? Or are you more of a burgers guy?”

Dean let her help him to his feet and looked wide-eyed at Sam. “Wow. Where did you find this woman?”

She smiled and ruffled Sam’s hair. “Honey, I assume you just want a salad?”

Sam remained rooted where he was and nodded, watching Dean.

Jessica slid down the wall next to Sam. His eyes remained trained on Dean as she curled an arm around his bicep and rested her head on his shoulder. “Hey Sam, I was thinking … since Dean seems so comfortable and, I assume you’re going to stay…”

Dean nodded. “For a while.”

“See, he’s going to stay. He’s got his own keys. Everybody’s on board,” Jess said. “Maybe we should just go to the Maui house for a few days. My caseload doesn’t pick up again until week after next and once the baby’s here—”

“No.”

Dean looked away from what should have been a private conversation.

“Just for…”

“No,” Sam repeated as if the air needed any more tension.

“Hey. I’ll go,” Dean offered, for a laugh.

It worked. Jessica grinned and tightened her grip on Sam’s arm. She buried her face there, no doubt soaking up that indefinable Sam scent. It was Jessica’s to breathe in and adore. Dean had no right to it at all.

Annoyed with the sour taste in his mouth, he lifted his eyes to find Sam’s gaze filling the space between them with dark, heavy hunger.

 

::

 

Sam was already at the breakfast bar with his laptop when Dean lurched into the kitchen. He sighed his gratitude and poured himself a cup of coffee and practically inhaled it. “You eat?”

“I already had some toast, thanks.”

Dean pulled down a pan from the overhead rack. “How’d you get so big on a vegetarian diet?”

“I’m not a vegetarian.” Sam didn’t bother looking up from his screen.

“Yeah, but you kinda are.”

“I’m not. Okay? I have standards for what type of meat I eat.” His fingers flew over the keyboard as he spoke.

Dean pulled two eggs and a stick of butter from the fridge. “I haven't seen you eat any meat since I've been here.”

“This is what you want to talk about?”

Dean shrugged and sliced half of the stick.

There was something therapeutic about the sizzle, slide, and fade of butter melting in a cast iron pan.

“I think I found a hunt.” Sam’s computer scraped against the marble tabletop when he spun it to show his brother. “It’s only two hours from here.”

“I’m not hunting with you.” Dean cracked his eggs into the melted loveliness.

“Why not?”

“I’m not dragging that crap into your home.” He pulled a spatula from the drawer. “You got out. That’s that.”

“You miss it.” Sam was watching him.

Dean pretended not to notice. “Yeah, right. I miss suicide missions and researching for days on end. Crappy motels and hours on the road.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Dean turned and smiled at his little brother. “I’ll survive. And you’re supposed to be studying. Not this.” With the spatula in one hand, he leaned over to close the browser.

His shirt fell forward, away from his body. Sam placed a warm palm flat on his stomach.

Dean flinched at the electricity and jerked away.

“Wow,” Sam whispered under his breath.

Heat surged straight to Dean’s dick. He stepped back, warmth churning beneath his skin. He turned back to his precious eggs and let the sizzling draw his attention away.

“So,” he said with false cheer, trying to change the subject. “What do you want to do today, Sammy?”

“You.”

Dean had to have heard him wrong. What he did hear was an indication of his own depravity. He moved the pan from the burner and left the kitchen.

::

As they walked, Sam started to talk about his problem. Dean shut it down. Still wasn’t ready. He just wanted to walk and breathe and let the ocean air clear his fucked-up mind. For a full fifteen minutes, he stopped to play with a crab that couldn’t decide whether to come out or stay in its little hole. It was frigging hilarious. The thing was scared of Dean’s shadow. It kept scuttling out and in again with every move he made.

He’d looked up to find Sam smiling down at him with this motherly/brotherly/otherly devotion that made the hairs on Dean’s neck stand up.

After that, he kept his back straight, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. Occasionally, he would steal a look out at the endless waves. But he didn’t make any comment about them. Didn’t let himself sigh, or any other girly thing like that.

Sam tried to keep the wind from blowing his hair in his face, but it was wasted effort. Eventually, he let the wind whip it every which way. And Dean was torn between staring and not looking at all.

Sam: so big, so small next to the ocean.

Sam: a beautiful, constant ache in the center of Dean's chest.

Then, Sam's hand was in his own, the spaces between their fingers crackling like a downed power line.

Dean yanked away. “What the fuck, Sam?”

Sam's entire body quivered like he would disintegrate and blow away in the breeze. “Sorry. I'm sorry.”

Dean turned on his heels and left him there, wounded, windswept, stuttering an apology. Dean’s heart was a fucking traitor, hammering away inside his chest. Free-range eggs were threatening to make a reappearance in the sand. He could run out into the ocean and let the next wave claim him.

He did neither. He was a warrior. Warriors keep fighting.

 

::

 

The downstairs toilet was clogged. Dean was no plumber, but he was good with his hands. He promised Jessica he’d have a look at it the next day.

But for the time being, he had to piss, so he’d had to go upstairs. Which meant that he happened to overhear Sam’s voice from behind the closed bedroom door.

“Look, I told you before. I don’t want to hurt the baby.”

“The baby won't get hurt, Sam. Do we need to call my OB? She will tell you.” Jessica sounded a little on edge.

“I wouldn’t try to pressure you. Why can’t you just respect that I don’t want to?”

“Because I’m horny, Sam. You haven’t touched me since… I don’t even remember.”

This was the point at which Dean should stop listening. He glanced down the hall at the bathroom door and stayed put.

“I think we should just be careful.” Sam was moving around in the room.

“It’s not dangerous. If you don't believe me, ask Dean. He’s the resident baby expert, with the books and what not.”

“I don't want to take any chances, okay?”

The argument stopped and Sam had won this round, although Jessica was hardly even showing. She wouldn't be any less hot with her belly full and round of Sammy Jr. The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up at the thought of it.

He began to step away until Jessica spoke again, lower than before. “It's not going to hurt the baby for you to kiss me, Sam.”

“You're being ridiculous.”

Dean’s instincts should have kicked in before the bedroom door swung open.

Sam didn’t even look surprised to find him standing there. His face was drawn and tense like their father had often looked. He peered down at Dean, chest heaving, nostrils flaring.

Dean sucked his lower lip into his mouth and shook his head, unable to form a useful thought. Then, he retreated to the goddamn bathroom.

::

 

Tinkering at the dealership was a fair excuse to get out of the house during the day, but Dean wouldn't get paid for another couple of weeks. So, relying on old skills, he’d hustled the weekend away and earned enough for a deposit and down payment.

He paid cash into the hands of the homely co-ed and her cute (if not quite hot) roommate. They were both some kind of science majors with thick glasses and nervous laughs. They both looked at him like he was made of gold. Sure, he’d fuck them, as a public service.

There was only the one duffel of clothes to lug in and the trunk full of weapons he'd better leave where they were.

He could cross the room in ten steps. There was one painted shut window, but it served Dean’s purpose: minimizing time spent with Sam.

 

::

Dean was painting non-toxic lacquer on the antique rocking chair he and Jessica had found at a yard sale. Like always, his body put him on alert the second Sam stepped into the room. Hunter’s reflexes. Nothing to do with his brother.

He ignored Sam and the heat that flooded his body as he became aware of being watched.

Sam leaned back against the wall, with his arms folded over his chest. “How’s your apartment?”

“‘Good.”

The kid would get the hint and scram eventually.  
Only, he didn’t, so Dean finally stood up. “You need something?”

Sam crossed the room in three long strides. His thumb dragged across Dean’s lip leaving a sharp shock in its wake. Dean’s body vibrated with the contact and the closeness. He shook his head slowly but didn’t move away. The paintbrush was still dripping in his hand. How could he possibly move with the paintbrush in his hand?

Sam smiled and wrapped a huge hand around Dean’s neck. “Aren’t you at least curious?”

“Curious about what?”

“What it would be like.” Sam lick his parted lips, thumb still on Dean’s.

“You’re my brother, Sam.”

“You’re my brother, Sam,” he parroted like a two-year-old.

“Mature.”

Sam smiled, dimple-deep and so pretty.

“You been drinking?” Dean couldn’t smell alcohol.

If only he’d been using real varnish instead of this organic crap, he could blame the fumes if he did anything insane, like let his brother kiss him. Temporary brain pollution. That was a thing, right?

Sam shrugged. “Maybe.”

Dean slanted away, but only wound up resting more of his weight into the warm, wide hand on his nape. “Jesus. Look, you got to knock this shit off, okay?”

“Why?”

“Because, for one thing, if your wife finds out…”

“My wife.” Sam spat the word like it was poison.

“Yeah. Your wife, dude.”

“She’s not going to find out. So, if that’s your only concern…” Sam closed his eyes and leaned in.

Dean shoved him, finally breaking the connection. “My concern is that you’ve lost your fucking mind.”

“Possibly.” Sam touched Dean’s cheek, fresh sparks flying over his skin.

Dean knocked the hand away. “Dammit, Sam.”

His larger little brother caught his wrist in a solid grip. Dean struggled, but Sam didn’t yield. Bigger, stronger and he was not nearly as drunk as he’d let Dean believe. And maybe Dean didn’t want to get loose nearly as much as he valiantly tried to pretend.

“I need to show you something.”

“Fine. Just get off me.”

“No. That’s part of it.” Sam closed his eyes and dropped his head forward, his face twisting in what looked like pain. “Fuck. Would you relax?”

“Sam.” Dean tried again to wrench his arm away.

Sam held him firmly, eyes still closed. “Dean, please. Just… calm down. Okay? Calm down.”

He was everything but calm. Standing in the middle of the floor with Sam refusing to let go of him, looking like he was about to launch into a seance.

“Try.” Sam pleaded.

Dean took a deep breath and focused on the warmth of Sam’s hand. The heat that always emanated from him. Dean would let himself enjoy it, only for a moment. And then, push him the hell away again before this thing got out of hand. Gradually, his pulse slowed beneath Sam’s fingertips.

“That’s good,” his brother praised with his eyes still shut.

Sam’s face smoothed. How would it be to touch him?

“You can.”

“Get out of my head.”

Sam smiled and everything in the room, the chair, the paint can, the newspaper, lifted three feet into the air.

Dean’s heart beat out of control again. He jerked away from Sam, and everything dropped back onto the hardwood.

Sam blinked his eyes open. Dean let the paintbrush fall. “What the fuck was that?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Sam said, eyes careful and contrite. “I feel something when I'm with you.”

“Sam. I told you, I’m not talking about that.” Dean crossed the room and opened the window.

Maybe there was something in this paint after all. His brain was addled, knees were going to buckle under him.

Sam. Sam was here. Sammy was still talking. Always talking. Why was that kid always talking?

“It’s… I can't explain it… It’s not attraction. It’s not. It’s more than that. I’ve been attracted to other people. It’s not that. Not just … It’s…” No. He wasn’t talking. He was blathering. Like an idiot. Like a lunatic, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I feel like … almost like I’m everything?”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Does it?”

“No. I have no idea what you’re talking about. You sound fucking crazy.”

“I feel like… I don’t know. I think I could do more, if you…”

“If I what?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know exactly how it works. I just know that…” Sam hung his head and peered up from under his hair. “I can’t get close enough to you.”

“Okay. That’s, uh—” Dean’s cue to get the fuck out of here.

“Don’t leave.” Sam stepped toward him. “You feel it, too. You always have.”

Dean put up his hands, tightened himself in a defensive stance. “All right.”

“I’ve always wanted to crawl inside of you and —”

“Sam, that’s enough!” It was more than enough.

If Sam went off the deep end, Dean wasn’t going with him.

“When you’re here, I’m a complete person. More than complete. More than just myself. I’m everything. I swear to you. I’m everything when I’m with you. When you’re gone, it’s like I’m hardly anything at all.” Sam’s eyes were glassy. The skin around them creased as he reached out his hand.

“Jesus.” Dean shook his head and walked out.

Out of the room. Out of the house. Just out.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean dragged himself through the door.  
He hadn’t slept or eaten.  
He'd only stopped for gas.

Dean made his way effortlessly, despite the dark, and collapsed into Bobby’s guest bed. He slept like the dead until he heard voices: the outside of his head kind.

As Dean staggered into the kitchen in search of coffee, Sam stopped talking and looked up from his cup.

“Great. So, now you can tell me your side of it.” Bobby said, rolling his eyes.

Dean took refuge by the coffee pot, his voice a sleep-rough growl. “Sam’s got a little baby coming.”

“No shit.” Bobby clapped Sam’s shoulder. “You might have mentioned that, idjit. You know what this calls for?”

He left the room.

Sam stared up at Dean from the edge of his seat. “I’m not possessed, you know.”

“I told you to knock it off with the mind reading crap because that’s not something humans do.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, fingers tingling for the weight of the gun at his back. He didn't draw, but Sam halted his approach. “I never read your mind. I could always ... just feel what you were feeling. On rare occasions, I could … see into you.”

That was no comfort.

“You have no reason to be scared of me.”

“I ain’t scared of you.” Dean squared his shoulders and willed himself to stop backing away.

“No. Not scared. Wary. I know you’re armed, but that you don’t want to hurt me. I know that you will if you feel you have to.” Sam shook his head. “I’m not dangerous, Dean. I’m not any different than I've ever been.”

“Except that you're reading minds.” Dean lowered his voice.

He still hadn’t decided how much of this to tell Bobby.

He just knew that he had to get away from Sam and that it didn’t seem to be a possibility anymore.

“I don’t think there are many, if any limits to what we can do.”

“We?” Dean cringed.

“When you're not around me, this whole thing, it shuts down after a while. It’s like something in me goes dormant. When I’m near you, it stirs this potential under my skin. Like I’m about to burst with … energy or life or something. And when we touch…”

Sam raised a hand.

Dean drew his gun. “Don’t.”

Bobby came into the kitchen with an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. He stopped in his tracks, smile fading instantly into a scowl. “That seems necessary to you, Dean?”

“You don’t know what I’m dealing with here, Bobby.”

“Do you really think I would hurt you?” Sam asked looking as though the question was painful.

“I don’t know.”

“No.” Sam folded his lower lip between his teeth. “You know what I would do to you. And you don’t want to want that.”

“What is he talking about?” Bobby’s head had been snapping back and forth. “What the Hell is going on with you two.”

“Show him.” Dean kept his gun trained on Sam’s chest.

Sam held up his hand.

“Do you have to touch me?”

“It helps.” Sam turned to their old friend who continued watching the exchange in confusion. “Bobby, when is the last time you had your... what is that, pancreas? Have you had that checked out? It's all ... I don't my know. Not good. Grey.”

“Damn doctor tried to tell me I got diabetes.”

Sam shrugged. “Might be right.”

The bottle clanked against the table when Bobby sat it down. “And you want to shoot him for that?”

Dean lowered the weapon but kept his finger on the trigger.

“That ain’t exactly normal, Sam. But all of us always knew Sam wasn't no regular kid. Not sure how much your dad told you, Dean.” Bobby screwed the top off the liquor and poured a generous amount into his mug.

“Something about a Specialist.”

Bobby grimaced. “Ahh. The god damned Specialist. Always told him that was wrong-headed. I reckon he didn’t tell you a damn thing, Sam.”

Sam shook his head. “I didn’t think he knew.”

“Hell yeah, he knew, son. It would have been hard to miss. But he never thought you were possessed, not outright. But he did believe that yellow-eyed son of a bitch who killed your mother was after you. To recruit, because of the way you are. Why you are this way, well … that’s still the mystery. Azazel might have known, but that asshole died with the secret just to spite John.”

“So, I could be anything?”

“We ruled out a lot when you were a baby.” Bobby slid the bottle across the table.

Dean spruced up his cup. “What do you know about this Specialist?”

“She had what she called a school for kids with special conditions.”

Dean perked up. “Like Professor X?”

“What the hell are you talking about, boy?” Bobby looked at Sam, but he was too lost in thought to reply.

“Professor X. X-Men.” That guy was epic.

Things were looking up. Of course, Sam was an X-man. He was the next step in evolution. A mutant.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It wasn’t no school. More like a kennel. She wasn’t any more a doctor than I am. Still, people took their kids to her left and right to be diagnosed and cured. Sometimes, it worked. Sometimes, the kid came back a zombie, from what I’ve heard. Plenty of them never made it back at all.”

“If she worked with kids, why would she want to see Sam as an adult?”

“Well, in a lot of ways, adults are even better study subjects than kids. Just harder to get them to agree to the kind of things she was doing. These kinds of abilities can be erratic and unpredictable, especially in children. Now that you’re fully grown, I imagine you have a better grasp on how it works and what you’re capable of.”

Sam nodded. “Somewhat, yes.”

“Yeah, well. You ain’t going to have to worry about getting sent to the Specialist. She bit it a couple of years ago. One of her projects went wrong. Served her right if you ask me. My advice, Sam? So, you’re a little different. Don’t play with it. Don’t poke it. Leave it alone. This ain’t a science project. Don’t go trying to piece together what it is. If you do that, no one ever finds out about you. No one finds out; you stay safe. Your wife, your kid, they stay safe. Dean, go find yourself a decent partner.”

Sam turned to him. “You’ve been hunting alone? Even Dad never did that.”

“No, he hunted with kids.”

Bobby went on. “You leave your brother alone, Dean. You got the taint of this damn job on you. Get back on the road. The world needs you. There’s my two cents.”

 

::

 

“Pass the ketchup.”

Sam slid it across the table. Dean slid it back and swirled a finger in the air. “Use ... the Force or whatever it is.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Sam glanced over his shoulder at the diner patrons Dean had forgotten were there.

“I’m still trying to figure out why you didn’t do it at Bobby’s. Why didn’t you show him the freaky shit? You think he was going to suggest we lock you up?”

Sam pursed his lips. He looked every bit as exhausted as Dean was. “I did what came naturally. He’s sick. He needs to change his diet. Take better care of himself.”

“Yeah, okay, Dr. Oz.” Dean slathered his fries with ketchup. “How much control do you have over this thing?”

“Not perfect, I guess. I can control it better when I feel close to you.” Sam lowered his gaze, confessing to his soup.

“You’re right next to me, Sam. God damn it.”

“No. When. I feel that you… You don’t want to hear it.” Sam stumbled over his words as he stared out of the window.

Dean's chili was getting cold, and Sam's puppy dog routine was giving him a headache.

“You’re right; I don’t want to hear it. So, spit it out.”

“When I feel that you want me. That you want to be with me.” Sam raised his eyes and waited for Dean to lash out.

Dean dropped his napkin on the half-eaten fries. It was all tasteless anyway. “You know, Sam, normal people don’t say every single god damned thing that crosses their mind.”

Sam frowned at first, obviously thinking it was a criticism. Dean snickered, and the smile that spread on his little brother’s face was all the redemption he'd had ever sought in this whole forsaken world.

 

::

 

Dean stepped out of the driver’s door under cover of night and crossed to the passenger’s side with his hands in his pockets. Sam shut his door and stalked over to his brother’s side.

The light was off in the master bedroom, but it was still well before midnight. Chances were that Jessica was still up working on something.

“You need to get up there and fuck her silly. You know that, right?”

The pained puppy was back. Sam shook his head, “I don’t want her. I never did.”

“You apparently liked her at some point unless you're saying that ain't your kid.”

“I’m a human being," Sam said. "I was horny, okay? And fucking lonely.”

Dean was intimately acquainted with lonely. Still. “She ain’t exactly a hardship.”

“She’s not you.” Sam squinted up at his darkened bedroom window. “I’ll do it if you’ll kiss me.”

Dean extinguished the sunburst in his chest. “I’m not going to kiss you, Sam.”

Sam stuck out his lower lip and pouted. And as ridiculous as it should be on a grown - overgrown - man, it landed: perfect ten adorable.

“You said you were going to drop this shit.”

Before the words were all the way out, Sam took Dean’s face between his gigantic, hot hands. “You tell me you don't want to kiss me and I’ll drop it.”

“Get the fuck off of me.” Dean squirmed, and turned his head but didn’t try to escape.

“Why are you fighting this? I know what you’re feeling. I know you think it’s just lust, and that it’s wrong, but I’m telling you. This is bigger than that. You and me. We are…”

Fine. Christ. Dean would kiss his little brother to shut him up. To make this conversation go away once and for all. One stupid kiss and that would be that.

Sam took a breath and closed the space between them.

The moment their lips met, there was rumbling. At first, Dean's body trembled. Shook like a little virgin. Then the streetlamps quivered.

Crazy timing for a tremor. But it was California, right?  
So, totally normal.

Sam’s hands covered most of Dean's face. The tips of those long fingers stroked behind his ears, carded over the short hairs on the side of his neck. Dean’s arms hung at his sides while he let his brother slow-kiss him into oblivion.

It wasn’t that it was so steamy. Sam didn’t jam his tongue down Dean’s throat. He didn’t try anything fancy. It didn’t go on forever. But the tension that had coagulated and hardened for years cracked and rolled away leaving Dean soft and exposed. He'd certainly never experienced this measure of tenderness and care. He hadn't ever really experienced anything.

When Sam took a step back, he still clutched Dean's face, as if he was some relic from Jerusalem. Dean’s entire body thrummed as he swayed, voice barely a whisper. “Holy. Fucking. Shit.”

Sam smiled.

Dean gripped his brother’s arm to steady himself. “Did you feel that?”

“It’s what I always feel.”


	4. Chapter 4

The girl was nothing but sickly pale skin and angles. Even her hair was skinny. Bone straight, fake red. Not really Dean’s thing, but she stared him down every time he stepped into the office to pick up or deliver keys to the cars he was working on.

The way she looked at him was not a question or an invitation; it was a downright promise. And he collected.

It was a simple in and out job. In and out. In and out. If sex had ever been about anything more than physical relief, Dean couldn’t remember that.

She smiled up at him, eyes half shut. Fingertips grated down his back. He buried his face in her hair: fruity and nice, but wrong.

When it was over, he just wanted her out of his room. Out from under him. His body was slaked, and his damned mind wound up even more tightly.

It was an asshole move, but he hopped up, into his jeans and made like he had to go to the bathroom. When he returned, he hovered around the edges of the room, not looking directly at her, murmuring meaningless crap about the dealership where they worked.

She dressed quickly and quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yep.” He nodded and forced himself not to cringe as she stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss him.

He turned his cheek, apologized with a feeble smile and didn’t even walk her all the way out of the apartment.

After he’d showered, changed his sheets and tugged on a clean pair of boxers, he started to feel like himself again. He laid on his back with a book about telekinesis on his stomach and one about childbirth to his right.

 

::

 

The knock on his door came so soon after his co-worker had left that she must have forgotten something. Before he could even get to his feet to open it, Sam barged in. He searched the small room like he’d lost something.

“Dude.” Dean tapped the screen of his phone. 2:14 AM

“What was her name?” Sam folded his arms over his chest and stationed himself at the foot of the bed.

Without meaning to, Dean’s eyes traveled the imposing length of his brother’s frame. “You got to stop this shit, Sam.”

“I would really like that, Dean. But since I don’t seem to be able to stop the shit, maybe you could cut me some slack.” His voice shook, but his glare didn’t falter.

“So, what are you saying? I’m supposed to stop fucking because you can read my mind?”

Sam’s arms fell to his sides.“Why are you like this? Why do you always have to be such a whore?”

“Dude. Sam. You’re married. You can’t get mad at me for… this is ridiculous; you know that.” Dean shook his head and pretended to read.

“You make me go to her.”

“I didn’t make you marry her.”

“You made me leave.”

That one stuck and stung. “You want to blame me, fine. It is what it is now. You need to go home.”

“You’re mine.” Sam’s whisper was punctuated by a burst of flame that licked Dean’s flesh.

He bellowed and leaped away from the blaze, searching the room for anything to put it out.  
Desperately, he fanned it with his leather jacket until all that was left was the smoldering, charred remains of his bed.

Stunned speechless, Dean gaped at the blackened mess where only a few minutes ago he’d lain reading. The books were destroyed. A sooty streak climbed up the wall behind where he usually lay his head. The sprinkler went off and he hissed as the unexpected pressure of the water alerted him to the blistered skin on his right arm.

His shirt was singed down to a useless rag and drenched now. In the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam inching towards him.

He raised his hand to keep him at bay. “Just…”

Sam’s face pinched tight, as if the pain was his. Dean never had the strength to resist comforting him. When his little brother touched him, he tensed but didn’t struggle. Sam drew close until their foreheads were touching. “I’m sorry.”

He was suddenly tired as hell. No, not tired exactly. At rest. Loose. Relaxed. His body unwound as Sam’s scent overpowered the smell of burn in the room and on his skin.

Dean thought nothing of the tingling in his arm until it stopped. He raised it to his eyes to be sure he was seeing what he was seeing. He flexed, twisted and stretched it, speechless at the smooth skin where a moment earlier there’d been a second-degree burn.

He tried to think of something witty to say. Or funny. There wasn’t a god damned thing. Only Sam, staring back, his gaze heavy with self-condemnation and dread. More than once, his mouth opened as if he would speak, only to snap shut again.

Dean licked his parched lips. Lost. They were both lost, and if Dean didn’t pull himself together, they would stay that way. It was his job to say something to snap Sam out of himself. Once he did, they’d both be okay. “How you doing there, Professor X?”

“Don’t call me that.” The expression on Sam’s face was not quite amused, but it was lighter than all that fear and remorse.

“How about Firestarter?”

Sam’s features tightened again. “I didn’t mean for that—”

“Then, you admit you don’t have it under control.”

“I never said I did.”

“And you admit, that it could have turned out a lot worse.” Dean thumbed open the cover one of the wet, burnt books.

“Come on, that’s…”

“Sam, this thing is a curse.”

“I’ve already told you, it’s not.”

“And you know that because…”

They’d been over it a dozen times since Bobby’s. As far as Dean could see, there was one viable explanation.

“It’s not a curse because I’ve always been this way. It’s … something else. Maybe I’m not human. I don’t know. Whatever I am, you’re part of it.”

There was no point arguing when Sam was right. There was some connection between Dean, and whatever was going on with him. “I get it. You got no go-juice when I’m not around. So, maybe the both of us are cursed. Or maybe Mom and Dad were hexed and it rubbed off on us. Or it could be a curse on their kids to begin with. Who knows who they might have pissed off.”

“It’s not a curse. And it’s not that I can’t access these … abilities when you’re not around. Not exactly … The whole thing is energy.”

“The force?” Dean grinned at his little brother, the Jedi.

“Please.” Sam’s eyes flashed a weary warning. “Imagine if it were auditory, related to the sense of sound. It’s like what I’m doing is interacting with sound waves, only it has to do with all kinds of matter. It’s not sound, but if it were, it would be like I could hear everything. It dies down to a dull hum when you’re not around. It was hardly there at all after I recovered from leaving. You understand?”

Dean nodded.

“And it’s like … symphonic when you touch me.”

And that was too much. “Okay. That’s…” He opened his drawer to find some clothes so he could get the hell out of there.

“I think that’s the whole key. I think the abilities are symptomatic. They’re not the point.”

“Then, what is the point?” Dean pulled a t-shirt from the dresser.

Sam crossed the room and took it from his hand and dropped it on the floor. The air between their fingers surged with heat on the verge of igniting as Sam twined their fingers as if in prayer.

“Us,” he said. “This is the point.”

There was something out of the ordinary about their connection. There always had been. They weren’t just brothers. Sexual attraction didn’t even cover it. There was some inextricable link between them that could consume them both. “Maybe that’s the curse, Sam.”

“Well, we’re going to have to keep researching this ourselves. I’m not telling Bobby or anyone else that you hear a symphony when we touch.”

Sam smiled and stepped even closer, slipping his free hand around Dean’s waist. “It was a metaphor.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

 

***

 

Somehow, they’d wound up on the floor across the room, under a window on the only remaining dry spot of carpet. Sam’s head had been on his outstretched legs for the last hour. The right one was completely numb, but that didn’t matter. Until the phone rang, Dean had thought his brother was asleep. He’d been in a trance himself combing his fingers through baby-soft hair.

Sam raised a finger and made the cell float across the room to Dean who plucked it out of the air. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling. “He’s fine.”

For Jessica’s benefit, he added, “Just... had a little too much to drink.”

“Do you think you could you drive him home?”

“Ah…"

Sam shook his head.

“Yeah. Sure. Once he wakes up, I’ll get him back to you in one hulking, impaired piece. Better if he’s your problem than mine.”

“Thanks, Dean.” She tried to sound tough, but her voice came out fragile and worn.

“Hey. Jess, you need to get some rest.”

“Kinda hard these days.”

“I'll talk to him. You got to sleep.”

She hung up and Dean put the phone on the floor.

Sam rolled onto his side with his back to Dean: thigh beneath cheek, shin under palm. He closed his eyes and soaked in all the tingling sensations of Sam so close. Nothing this good could be forever. Dean drew in a breath and clapped him on the shoulder. “All right. Get your sorry ass up. And you better act drunk as shit when you get in the house. As a matter of fact, maybe we should get you blasted first.”

 

::

 

Dean rubbed his eyes. The bed was new. He’d have to paint over the black sear mark on the wall. Later. After the marathon research session. He’d been guzzling coffee, staring at the screen for the last 12 hours and was finally getting somewhere.

A Plague On Your House: What To Do When Your Family Has Been Cursed.

He could even read the book online. It was written by a Gullah woman who claimed personal experience with casting, identifying and breaking intergenerational spells. As it always was with research, the source material was 95% bullshit with actual lore obscured in the haystack. His job was to sift through the crap to find the needle of useful evidence.

He skimmed over a chapter on celebrities: Kennedys, Bruce Lee and his son, Princess Grace of Monaco, and Brando’s screwed up kids. Intriguing, maybe, if you had time for that kind of shit.  
Sibling Suicides. More interesting.

He took a sip of his coffee and started to read.

 

::

 

Dean kept his eyes squeezed shut, and his hand clutched onto the armrest. “You know this is entirely for scientific purposes.”

Sam raised his head long enough to grin and say, “You keep telling yourself that.”

Then, he went back to work sucking Dean’s neck between greedy lips. Nibbling and troubling with his firm tongue. His hands were huge and everywhere: caressing Dean’s face, gripping the back of this neck, tweaking nipple, kneading thigh.

Beneath it all, that same electricity. Sam’s symphony.

Dean was in grave danger of coming in his pants on Jessica’s Italian leather sofa. “Okay. Okay. Let’s take a break.”

“You okay?” Sam smirked.

“Not really.” Dean shifted in his seat, unable to get comfortable with his erection straining for attention. “You say you’ve been practicing…”

Sam cast a heated glance at his crotch and licked his lips. Dean covered himself with a pillow. Sam cocked his head slightly: puppy hearing its first siren.

Dean moved his hands as the pillow began to vibrate, then to change and shrink until it was a shapeless mist hovering over Dean’s lap.

“What do you want?” Sam’s voice was breathy and calm.

Dean said the first thing that came to his mind: “FN scar?”

If Sam managed to produce a gas-operated, self-loading rifle with a rotating bolt, Dean would have no choice but to be impressed.

“Not enough matter.”

“Lakers tickets?”

Sam blinked slowly and the exhaled loudly. He turned Dean’s hand so that the swirling, dwindling object landed in his upturned palm. “Is this…”

Sam smiled.

“Jesus.” Dean gawked at the clear stone, which only minutes earlier had been a fucking throw pillow. “How the hell do you do that?”

“I’m not sure.” Sam sat back. “It’s like, I connect with the matter the way I connect with you and I ask it to alter.”

“So, manners? Jesus, Sammy.”

Dean had two emergency settings: joker and jerk. And it wasn’t his fault if Sam was all self-conscious and vulnerable showing off his new … The word wasn’t trick. Tricks were magic, and this was

What the hell was this?

Dean examined the jagged, transparent hunk between thumb and forefinger. He was no expert. It could have been a hunk of 24-carat glass, but regardless of its value, it had changed before his eyes.

Dean held it out to his brother. “So, you going to turn me into a frog?”

Sam declined the stone and shook his head, voice still so hushed. “I love the way you are.”

“Lucky for me.” The gem clinked against the glass table.

“I thought you would like it.”

“I, uh… It’s… ”

Dean winced at the shock when Sam touched his face and strained against the surge when Sam pressed their lips together. He’d been fearing this since the last time, the first time. But the earth stood still. Or at least, it didn’t shake.

“I think I have control now. Relax.”

Tall order with Sam trying to swallow his tongue, and the sorcerer’s stone sitting there accusing them both.

“Dean.”

His face was squashed between Sam’s huge, warm hands, and Dean let himself unwind a bit. Then, Sam’s hand was on his erection, and he leaped off the sofa.

“Please.”

Dean could run. He could be out of the front door, in his car, on his way or just ... or -

Sam pulled him back and nuzzled Dean’s ear. “Please, relax.”

“Shit.” If he let himself relax, he might dissolve and be transmogrified into god knows what.

“I’m never going to hurt you,” Sam spoke against his lips. “Whatever happens, I want you to know how much I love you.”

What the hell was that? Before Dean even had a chance to ask, Sam kissed him again. Then, he vanished. Dean spun in every direction. “Sam! Sammy! Fuck.”

He stood but didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with himself until there was laughter. Dean followed it and found his brother in the kitchen grinning with his hands over his mouth. His broad shoulders shook, eyes bright as a child’s.

Dean was on the cusp of strangling the life out of him. “What the hell?!”

“Space, time, matter are all so malleable.” Sam laughed.

“What the fuck, Sam?”

“It only sticks together the way we perceive because we don't know how to mold it, work with it. We could... god. We could do anything.”

Just like that, Dean’s life had gone from horror to sci-fi. “So, could you do me?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Sam pawed his chest.

“Science, Sam.”

“Yeah.” Sam stroked his face. “You ready?”

Dean nodded. He had dreamed of being an astronaut as a kid. Of course, his dad shut that shit down the first time he’d ever mentioned it. “There’s enough trouble on earth, Dean.”

Well, fuck you, Neil Armstrong.

Dean closed his eyes. “What should I do?”

He opened them to darkening sky and the rooves of the houses all around him. “Funny, Sam. Very funny.”

Sam ran out of the front door and shielded his eyes from the setting sun, still laughing.

Dean stood carefully and shouted down, “Fucking hilarious.”

::

 

Kelly, Madison, and Sharon: a blonde, a brunette and a busty Asian - in bikini tops and sarongs. Each bore a plate of meat for him to grill - marinated chicken, sausages, and steaks.

It might as well have been his birthday instead of Sam’s.

He smiled and tipped his beer to the smorgasbord Jessica had provided. “Ladies.”

“All of you people are equally single, so work it out amongst yourselves.” Jess rested her hands on his shoulders.

Two of the girls giggled and lowered their eyes in a display of fake modesty. Sharon glared with hooded, hungry eyes.

Jess winked. “And they’re off.”

Dean Winchester had never stepped foot in a cushy gym a single day in his life. He’d run and sparred and all that, but he wouldn’t know an elliptical machine if it mowed him down in the street. But he used his whole body in his work, and it showed. He looked good, and it didn’t hurt his confidence.

Sam.  
Sam was a whole different story. A Greek odyssey involving demigods. Sam had the kind of physique artists carve into stone. It wasn’t a big deal, only mildly inconvenient when Sam was half-dressed and Dean was trying to feign interest in his sister-in-law’s marginally cute co-workers.

And as if Sam wasn’t distracting enough, Dean’s gaze narrowed in on the emblem carved in his chest. The same square and perpendicular lines that he’d carved over Dean’s heart more than a decade ago.

Sam was approaching. Keep cool. Stay calm. Nobody discovers anything you don’t show. “Ladies, you all know Sam.”

They all knew Sam. They were having the same challenge of focusing on his eyes and not his pecs.

‘Ladies, I’m up here.’ Sam could have said it, but of course, he didn’t.

He didn't even seem to be aware that the girls from Jessica’s office were standing there.

Sam placed one of his huge, hot hands on the small of Dean’s back. As heat surged up into his shorts, Dean elbowed him away with a brotherly grimace.

“When did you … get that?” Dean nodded at the matching scar tattoo, making sure his voice sounded every bit as casual as he didn’t feel.

“Shortly after I came out here. Helped me keep my head on straight.”

Dean nodded. The girls fidgeted and looked around awkwardly. They could sense the change in the air, although they couldn’t have known why.

“Let's swim.” Sam’s hand was back, this time, on his arm.

Dean made like he had to grab the tongs, which put some space between him and his handsy brother. “Somebody’s gotta man the grill.”

Sam lifted his hands and stepped back. “Better you than me.”

That presented an opportunity to fix the vibe between them. Dean was sick of playing prey. Taking the role of tormenting older brother would be good for his pride, and good for the crowd.

“You know this kid was practically vegan until he hit puberty. Our dad used to force him to eat it. And Sam would throw it up. Remember that, kid? He used to say, ‘if you don’t eat meat, you won’t grow.’ Look at this monster.”

Sam grinned like it was some inside secret. “The way I remember, you ate enough meat for the both of us.”

The girls laughed. Dean laughed, too. To do anything else would have been conspicuous.  
Sam’s hand was on his back. He hadn't even spared a glance at any of the girls since he’d joined them.

‘Stop fucking touching me, Sam.’ Dean thought the words as clearly as he could.

Sam smiled and clapped his back twice. “I’m going to swim.”

He was back in the pool when all the guests had left. Jess and Dean threw away the disposable dishes and carried leftover food inside. He was loading a platter into the dishwasher when Jessica stepped behind him.

Whatever it was, he gave her time to work up to it.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk much lately.”

He turned to face her, wiping his hands on the dishrag.

She took a deep breath and never broke eye contact. “You’ve been incredibly helpful, Dean. The nursery is amazing. You are… I’ve been thinking a lot about this, and I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done to help us get ready.”

He nodded.

“And I think, you’ve done all you can do. If it would help, I can pay off the rest of your lease.”

Dean handed her the rag. “Glad I could help.” He glanced out of the sliding glass door that lead down to the patio overlooking the pool. “I should probably say something to him.”

“I think it’s best if you don’t.”

Dean nodded again. As he started his car, he thought, then spoke out loud, “Don’t follow me.”

He drove down the street, repeating it. “Do not follow me.”

He stopped at a red light beside a carload of laughing teenagers. “Don’t follow me, Sam.”

As he was passing through San Jose, the phone rang.

Sam’s voice was higher and faster than usual, trying to subdue his panic. “Georgia, right? I can get on a plane tomorrow. Wait for you in Atlanta. We can see that woman, whoever she is, we can go see her together. Won’t that be better?”

“No, Sammy. It won’t. The best thing is for you to stay put and take care of your family. I swear if you follow me, I’ll … Just don’t, okay? Please.” Dean’s throat was closing up on him.

There wasn’t anything else to say anyway. He dropped the phone onto the passenger’s seat and let Sam’s voice buzz into the background.

It was no use thinking about it anymore. What was done was done. Dean turned up his music and shut down his brain.

 

::

 

There’s summer. Then, there’s this madness. It was like Bible belt had gone to Hell and Dean deserved it. For wanting Sam. For nearly taking him. For leaving him.

He parked on a patch of drooping, yellow grass out front of a ramshackle cabin and melted out of the driver’s door. His grey, Army issue t-shirt was stained dark at the armpits, down the back and the center of his chest. He swiped a sweaty forearm over an even damper forehead and swore.

The air was fetid and thick, stinking of swamp and sea. He was no fan of alligators or any of the other things that lurk in places like this.

A small, slightly rotund, black woman stepped onto the porch puffing on a pipe, despite the swelter.

“Ma’am.”

“Now, how could anybody with a face like that think he was cursed?” Her voice was high-pitched and strange like she was singing every word to a small child.

“Yeah, well. JFK Jr. wasn’t exactly a slouch, was he?”

They exchanged the words easily, like a passcode. Like they had known each other for years, instead of meeting for the first time on an unforgivably hot day.

She stepped back into the cabin. ‘Shack’ was more like it. Every plank on the crooked steps groaned under Dean’s boots. The moment he stepped inside, comfort washed over him.

He couldn’t even put a finger on it and didn’t bother trying. Without waiting to be invited, Dean dumped his weary body onto the plushest sofa he’d ever sunken his bones into. The scent of lavender seemed to waft up as he let himself sigh.

The woman, Missouri, like the state - Dean knew that from her book. Missouri Mosely sounded like a Marvel alias. Dean smiled to himself as she handed him a tall glass of the coldest, sweetest iced tea he had ever had. It was like drinking candy.

She lifted an eyebrow as he downed the whole thing in one chug. He swiped his chin with his wrist and looked around the room. How had he not done that before? His training was to take inventory of a situation before pretending to be comfortable. But to ever actually get comfortable was the most dangerous thing he could do.

Oh well. Too late. He’d let down his guard. There didn’t appear to be anything overtly problematic about the place. He returned the empty glass to his host. “You got any kind of stealth mojo you can put on this place?”

“Why? Somebody after you?” She puffed out a small, grey cloud, like the Little Engine that couldn’t give a shit.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. No one dangerous, but … I’m trying to get away.”

“Resort weekend?” Missouri grinned at her joke.

Some resort. There was hardly room to turn around in her living room.

Dean huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Well, this place is pretty well off the beaten track.”

He nodded, “It is, but that won’t matter if he wants to find me.”

“I could hide you, so long as you’re here.”

“That’s even better. What do I have to do?”

Missouri ambled over to a china cupboard. Reaching behind a stack of plates, she produced a small black bag. “You just want to disappear? Or you want to bring pain to your pursuer.”

“No pain.” Dean shook his head. “No pain.”

She rifled through the pouch and drew out a tiny skull and sat it on top of the plates. Squirrel. Chipmunk. Dean thanked her for the satchel. “It’s not going to hurt him, right?”

“Not in the least. Now, you change your mind, you get that weasel. Stuff it right in there. Without it, if your friend tries to track you… and I’m assuming this is somebody with unusual capacities.”

Dean nodded.

“Mmhm. He’ll just wind up confused. It’s like when the FBI tries to track a phone call, and the signal gets scrambled. We all have a signal. He won’t be able to track yours.”

“Yeah. That’s perfect.” Dean rubbed at the bag, the contents crunching beneath his curious fingers.

“May I ask?”

“No.” He huffed a laugh. He didn’t come here for a confessional. He came to have a curse removed. Plain as that. “Sorry. No.”

“No need to apologize, honey. Lord knows, I got my secrets. You keep that on yourself; he won’t be showing up here.”

“Thank you.” Dean raised his hips to tuck the pouch into his pocket.

“Now, I reckon it’d be real impressive if I could just pull your name right out of the sky, but that ain’t how my thing works.”

“Winchester. Dean.”

“All right, Mr. Winchester, Dean. I reckon you know my name,” Missouri settled into an ancient rocker. “I would like very much to help you, but you got to be completely honest with me. I cain’t work with lies or convenient omissions. Understand?”

Dean found himself wide-eyed and nodding like he was in the first grade being reprimanded for eating glue.

“Now, what leads you to believe that your family is cursed?”

Missouri Mosely was the nicest lady he’d ever met. Dean had an urge to hug and tell her everything. A soft, sleepy voice in the back of his mind yawned that it must be a spell. The rest of him hung his head and spilled his guts. “My mother died in a fire that was set by a demon. I accidentally killed my father, and I’m in love with my brother.”

It was a bit like vomiting: left a disgusting taste in his mouth, but also gave a sick relief.

Missouri shrugged. “I’ve heard worse.”

Dean rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to make the lingering sugar from the tea to cover the sour of the words he’d just spoken.

“Now, I’m going to ask you to take that knife and fill that basin there.” She pointed a small, crooked finger toward a silver bowl and dagger Dean hadn’t even noticed on the coffee table.

He already knew What. She left the How to him. Once he’d drained the neat slice in his arm, Missouri gestured to a stack of bandages and tape Dean was sure had not been there a moment earlier.

While he patched himself up, she picked up the dish, squinted like she was trying to read his blood type. She swished the contents left and right before she held it up to her nose. Finally, she emptied every last drop down her gullet.

Luckily for Dean, he’d skipped lunch, or else it would be all over Missouri Mosely’s rough-hewn floor.

When she lowered the vessel, she opened her eyes and declared, “No taint.”

“No taint?” He repeated as if he hadn’t heard the first time.

She shook her head and placed the bowl on the table with a dull, final clunk against the wood. Dean stared at it with disbelief and disappointment. It was ridiculous. Had he wanted to be cursed?

Even if there were no way to break the hex, it would make life so much simpler to know it couldn't be helped or changed. He wasn’t just a naturally sick bastard. Someone had made him that way out of malice. He was a victim.

So, yeah. Missouri proclaiming him curse-free threw a socket wrench in his well-laid plans. Dean reached for the knife. “Can you do it again? See if you missed something.”

“Honey. You ain’t tainted. I could have told you that before you parked the car. The blood is for show.”

Dean took a moment to let that diagnosis slip into his bones. “Well. Thank you.” He willed his leaden carcass to stand and heave toward the door.

“You’re not cursed, Mr. Winchester. But I have never, in my life, seen a soul print like yours. Do you know what that is?”

All of her words were jumbling together. The pounding despondency was going to be one bitch of a headache by the time Dean found a motel. He just stood there staring blankly at the kind, but useless, little woman.

“A soul print is like a fingerprint. Everyone’s is unique,” she explained. “Yours, however… Imagine if your thumb would just leave behind one perfect circle. That would be mighty strange, wouldn’t it? And you wouldn’t be at all surprised if, say, a forensics expert was fascinated. I wonder if it would be all right with you if I were to call in a consultant?”

“But I’m not cursed?”

“No. Absolutely not.” A gentle shake of the head and she almost seemed to pity him for that.

“And what would these consultants do?” He couldn’t help think of the Specialist. As bummed as he was, he’d just as soon skip that kind of rodeo.

“Well, we might be able to divine something about your troubles, but mostly, it would be for our enlightenment. There wouldn’t be anything uncomfortable … without warning and consent.”

He looked Missouri over and without knowing why or thinking twice about it, he trusted her. “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

They agreed that he would stay a few days for the examination. It would at least give him some time to think over his next move. Maybe he could buy this concealment pouch off Missouri. That might help, if Sam was even looking for him. Sam hadn’t tried before, when they were kids. Dean had instructed him not to call or write, and Sam had obeyed. Then he’d been so busy sticking it in Jessica that he had forgotten he had a brother at all.

Dean grabbed his duffel from the car, settled into a guest room the size of a broom closet, and spent the rest of the day doing chores. Cleaning the chicken coop, repairing the shed door filled the hours to sundown. Considering that the alternative was to sit in the house wringing his hands, it was a day well spent.

By evening, the air had cooled. Dean drew some water from the well, washed his face and hands in the basin in the tiny bathroom and changed into a clean, dry shirt.

He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until he had downed the third heaping helping of impossibly good gumbo. Dean wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “So, why are you named after a state?”

“Oh, you get chatty with your belly full.” Missouri had already retreated to her rocking chair and was refilling her pipe with an amused grin. “Not the state, the river. The way I’m told, my mother was drowned in it, and I come popping out. Birthed myself, so as not to go down with her.”

“Sounds like bullshit.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Missouri rocked and puffed, unfazed. “There some great story to go behind Dean?”

“It was my grandmother’s name. Well, Deanna. Not Dean. I’m named for her. Mother’s mother.”

“That sound like bullshit to me.”

He eyeballed the older woman for a second, still regretful of his rudeness and taken aback by hers. She burst into laughter, tipping her head back like a PEZ dispenser. It got to the point that she was in danger of rocking the chair onto its back.  
It wasn't that funny, but Dean couldn’t help the smile that pulled across his lips. He hadn’t seen anybody laugh that freely in ages. Maybe never.

Eventually, Missouri pulled herself together. “Take yourself real serious, don’t you? Well, I’m just telling you like they told me. Name ain’t who you are. Anyway, I didn’t have no mother either, so we got that in common, don’t we?”

“Yeah. I guess we do.” Dean spooned up the last of his gumbo and decided against a fourth portion, to be polite.

Missouri smiled and smoked and rocked just as easy as you please. “Us poor little babies.”

Watching the chair made him think of a cradle. Pushing Sam’s. Listening to his mother sing lullabies. Way back before everything went to shit. There was no way he could remember that. “There’s a spell on this place, isn’t there?”

“There’s a lot of magic at work here. Isn’t that why you came?”

That was a good point.

“Does it bother you?”

“Nah. Just… I feel like I’m under some spell since I’ve been here? I don’t usually feel this at ease anywhere. It’s making me uneasy.”

She nodded, pleased like he had answered well in class - not a situation Dean had ever experienced, but the way Dean had always imagined teachers must look at Sam, like he was the second coming. Always too smart for anybody’s good.

Dean wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Sam. He’d forcefully put his brother out of his mind all afternoon. Keeping busy helped. Winding down was treacherous.

Missouri had been talking this whole time, and he’d missed most of it. “… bad intentions will find it hard to get through the door. They have a severe allergic reaction and go running for the hills.”

There was something like that on Bobby’s place: friends welcome, enemies fuck off. “Elegant.”

“Ain’t it?” She sat back in her chair.

They were silent for a long time, Dean and Missouri, comfortable and still. The swamp around them was anything but quiet. Frogs, crickets, and God knows what else chirped, hummed and trilled louder than the city. He hated trying to sleep with all the sirens and shouting and cats and dogs yowling. Generally speaking, he got his best rest in the car on the side of some two-lane road.

After a while, though, the noises became sounds became an orchestra. It was goddamn hypnotic if you listened without listening. The night was alive - a breathing, living thing. But one that wasn’t coming to eat or slash him. It was just green and damp and looking for love. And he was a tiny, insignificant part of it.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Missouri cooed.

“Are you psychic?”

“You got a lot of questions, Dean Winchester.”

Dean looked at the feisty old bird. “Just wondering what it would be like, you know, to be born like that.”

“It ain’t easy. I’ll tell you that. Drive a lot of people stone crazy. My aunt Clara used to hear voices. Cracked her skull open against a brick wall, just like an egg.”

“Did that happen?”

Missouri peered down her nose at him. “Why don’t you tell me something about this brother of yours. You used some mighty strong language to describe your relationship.”

Suddenly, his throat was parched, and every inch of his skin itched. He started the scratching on his left thigh. Then, his right hand. Then, he scrubbed at his face. God, his back. “Yeah, well, that’s not something I talk about. You said no omissions, so—”

“Where is he?”

Dean needed to shut this down. The whole conversation. He could shoot the shit with her, but this was off limits. He could just change the subject. Or refuse to talk. He could say he had had a long day and wanted to turn in. Instead, he said, “California.”

“Are your feelings mutual?”

“I think so.” Dean hung his head and shut his eyes. “Yeah, it’s…” Mutual.

Jesus, he was talking about Sam and his ‘mutual feelings.’  
Shut it down.

“And does that make it better or worse?” Who was she, Dr. Phil?

He looked at her. No, she wasn’t Dr. Phil, because she didn’t have a stupid fucking mustache and Dean didn’t want to punch her in the face. He wanted to explain himself and hear her say that he wasn’t a disgusting pervert. For better or worse she had asked him, so he answered, “Hard to say.”

“Has it been this way for long?”

He was running out of words. Making himself sick to the stomach thinking about it. Talking about it out loud. He nodded. That was easier. A little.

“What's his name?”

He didn’t want to say Sam’s name. Didn’t want to taste it. Didn’t want to think about Sam anymore. Not like this. Dean had driven across the goddamn country in four days so that he could be rid of this thing. It had dogged him all the way. Ridden him his whole life long. It had haunted him more than his father, more than any ghost of any civilian he hadn’t been able to save.  
This thing was at the core of him. “Sam.”

Her eyes widened and then, softened as she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, honey. If he does feel the same, why on earth … Lord have mercy. How can you possibly stand to keep yourself from him?”

“I think of my mother. And how she would never forgive me.”

“Do you even remember her? Your mother? You think she would want you to torture yourself like this?” Missouri’s voice had become so quiet; Dean leaned closer to hear her above the night creatures.

It almost didn’t matter what else she said. She knew the deal, and she hadn’t called him a sicko. That was something. There hadn’t ever been anyone else he could talk to about this.

“Well, I know she wouldn’t want me to … have at my little brother? No mother would want that. I don’t remember her. No. Hardly at all. She’s more of a symbol of what's right and good and how everything can instantly go to shit. Instantly. If I ever did anything that hurt Sam …”

“Is that your intention? To hurt him?”

“Never.” Dean looked up, but she had disappeared, her skin blended with the night.

If it weren’t for the lingering smell of pure tobacco burning, and the occasional orange glow, it would be like he was talking to his conscience.

“When we were kids,” he went on. “I was always scared I would. I was bigger than he was. And I got worldwise quick, you know? I had to be careful how I talked to him. Touched him. Let him touch me. Now? Well, he ain’t exactly fragile. But I could sure as shit bust up his beautiful life.”

“So, what is it that you want to do?” Missouri asked.

“Die,” Dean blurted. That had come out a little too quickly.

He had, at times, thought about it, but Dean Winchester did not have a death wish. “I would if I have to. For Sam. What I want is to leave him alone. I’ve done it once before; I can do it again.”

Was he saying it to convince himself? Missouri surely didn’t care, which Dean appreciated on the one hand, but the whole thing just made him feel more alone. He’d only been at Sam and Jess’ for around a month, but he’d let himself get soft and accustomed to having people. Five years, he had gone without anyone. Bobby, yeah, sure, he could always call Bobby. But he wasn’t going to tuck himself up under Bobby’s armpit and sit on his sofa and eat his chips. He turned to Bobby if he needed something and Bobby would do the same. It was familiar, but it wasn’t close.

All he had or wanted in the world was Sam.

God damn it. He wasn’t going to sit out in the middle of a swamp and cry. Dean hoisted himself to his feet, ready to use the 'rough day' excuse, if he could get his voice to work.

If he tried to say another word, he’d be bawling, and fuck that. He started to drag himself toward the door.

“Dean.” Missouri’s hand was doughy and warm on his forearm. “My friend? The consultant? She’s very powerful. How about when we’re done our study, we ask her what she can do to … adjust your feelings about your brother? Make them more… conventional. Would that be helpful?”

Dean’s nose stung and tears welled in his eyes. It was dark. He didn’t know whether or not she would see him nod briefly. It was all he could manage.

“All right, then. You sleep tight, now.” She gave his arm a little squeeze and let him go.

::

Dean slept tight and woke loose. He used the remaining cold water to wash up. As long as he didn’t get too close to anybody or raise his arms or move too fast … Missouri’s fault for not having a shower, and living in the south, and asking him to stay on.

In addition to himself, Dean could smell bacon and eggs. Hallelujah. He buttoned his jeans before he stepped into the living area. “Morning.”

A thin, sharp-nosed redhead raised a plucked brow at him. Dean stopped and got a fresh lay of the land before taking another step. Everything about her put his mind on high alert.

The woman grinned as she stepped too close, tipped her pointy beak into the air and took a deep, appreciative whiff. “You, my dear, are a bouquet of freshly clipped roses.”

She had some wacky accent. Not American. That didn’t help with the trust issue. “Thanks?”

Missouri stepped into the room, drying her hands on a dishrag. “Morning, Dean. You sleep all right?”

He narrowed his eyes, hoping Missouri would understand the wordless question, while the lean lady slithered around him, taking inventory like she was preparing to make an offer.

She wasn’t exactly unattractive, just looked creepy. In fact, she had a real nice figure and was dressed like a Sunday morning talk show host - taste and money.

Missouri’s hand swept from one to the other. “Dean, this is my friend, Rowena. Ro. Dean.”

“He’s delicious, Suri.” Her voice was fucking salacious: the kind of growl that precedes salivation. “Handsome. Virile. Angsty. Do you know how my girls would devour him for Beltane? And I would gladly be in your debt.”

Missouri rolled her eyes. “Not why I called you.”

Thank god. For a minute it seemed Missouri was planning to pimp him out for some fertility ritual. And while there were probably worse things, it would have been a betrayal.

Missouri put her hands on her ample hips. “If he wants to go get screwed to death, that’s up to him.”

“Doesn't have to be.” Rowena’s grin was reminiscent of a smug fox - with bangs.

Dean hated women with bangs.

“I think you ought to have a look at his aura first. And then, we do the tracing, as we discussed.”

Rowena pouted. “You are a spoil sport, you know that.” She folded her arms and waited as if Dean had prepared a song and dance. “Well?”

Missouri rested a hand on Dean’s shoulder. He relaxed, unsure of whether she’d done some magical thing to him. It didn’t really matter; he felt better. “Say your brother's name, honey.”

“Sam?”

What was Sammy doing? Probably still asleep. Curled up like a gigantic, fucking puppy with his hair all wild and in his face. Adorable when he slept. Dean was allowed to think that, right? That was a typical brother thought, wasn’t it?

Rowena gasped. “Oh my ... Darling.” She swayed on her feet with her fingers fanned wide, hands stroking the air around him as if there were something there. “Do you know what an aura is?”

“Not really. Some kind of ... no.”

“Simply put, it’s the visible bit of your soul.”

Dean had been around the paranormal for most of his life and he’d never once seen an aura. Psychics and new agers toss the word around, but he’d never given it a second thought. “Visible?”

“Well, to some of us. And yours is quite curious on its own, but it positively lights up when you think of your brother. Do you know what causes that to happen?”

As soon as she mentioned Sam, Dean was fed up with the lesson. “Can we just assume I don't know shit and save us both a lot of time?”

“The purer the love, the brighter the aura becomes,” Rowena explained. “And pure love is, well, it's always been rare. In this fast food generation, it’s unheard of. No one born in the last 100 years is even capable. Or, I’d have said so, before seeing this. I've been around a long time and I'm not sure I’ve ever seen … this.”

Missouri nodded as solemn as if she was in church. “I told you.”

“You surely did, dear.” She gave Missouri a tender pat and held out a hand to guide Dean into a chair.

He slid past her and tucked himself into the far corner of the soft couch. This might be a bad idea. He winced at Missouri who’d settled into her chair, as well. “Is she stronger than you?”

She smiled. “We each have our specialties.”

“Do you know why I’m here?” Rowena was packing things out of an expensive looking purse into a large, silver salad bowl.

“Something about a soul print?”

“That’s what some call the aura.” She dumped in some powdery substance that could have been dandruff or fish scales.

Dean craned his neck to watch the white flakes slide into the bottom of the bowl. He had a prickly feeling he was going to have to eat whatever she was cooking. Was it better to know what went in or not? “What is that?”

“Shall I write out a recipe?” She bared her teeth in what was probably meant to be a smile but came off as more of a snarl.

There was way more eerie crap in that bag than should have fit, but Dean wasn’t in a frame of mind to comment on it. The next ingredient was definitely seaweed, unless it was pond scum. What was the difference? It was green and slimy-looking, and nothing Dean wanted in his mouth. He hadn't even had breakfast yet.

“Do you know what a soul is?”

He gaped up at the witch, because that’s what she was. “Do you have to call me that?”

She smiled like a kindergarten teacher. “It’s really very simple. Magnetic energy that every living thing derives from its planet home. A cosmic essence which the planets received from their stars when they were forged. Everyone thinks they are some esoteric thing, but that’s only because science hasn’t yet developed the technology to measure and study them. The closest we have to that is EMF.”

Now, he was listening. EMF he knew. Although, he’d never heard any theory on why it worked. “So, a soul is magnetic?”

“In simplified terms. All you need to know is that the soul comes from the Earth. Now, when you go to a funeral and the priest says, ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ he thinks he’s only referring to physical decomposition. What most people don’t know is that every soul also disintegrates after death, the same way as the body does. Then, each fresh soul is reconstituted from what fragments become available when others die. Do you understand?”

The contents of the bowl were invisible from where he was slouched down in the cushions of the sofa. Rowena stirred with a large black feather.

“You’re saying a baby’s soul is made up of a bunch of dead people.” It was a gross thought.

“Essentially, yes. Everything on earth is made up of everything else on earth. Round and round in pretty, messy circles. Memories of past lives as Cleopatra or a fish are made possible by that fact. But of course, that also means that you and I and a thousand other people may also share in those same soul memories. When you experience an instant affinity for someone or something, you are experiencing a reaction between shared soul material. It’s all rather complicated, but I wanted you to understand the basics and the significance of your emotion.”

“My emotion?”

“Your attachment to your brother suggests that you two share a large percent of soul material. At least that’s my theory. And the intensity of your love for him shows that you are aware of that on a subconscious level.”

“You lost me at soul material.”

She smiled. “That’s all right.”

Rowena placed her manicured claws on his thighs, and kissed him hungrily. Then, she passed back and spat into her salad cauldron. “Purity is rare. The magic that could be done with the level of purity you possess, well… It’s lucky for you Missouri has taken a shine. There are those who would take advantage.”

“Purity, meaning?” It was an accusation.

Dean was in a room with a pair of psychics. They could surely see just how far he’d gone with Sam. Too far. And certainly not pure. The heat of shame rose up his neck and over his ears.

Rowena sucked her teeth and finally shut her bag. “Purity meaning unconditional and laser focused. It has nothing to do with whether you’ve fucked your darling brother or not.”

“I would never.”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s begin.”

Before Dean could ask what they were beginning, she lit a match and dropped it into the bowl.


	5. Chapter 5

The kid was five, maybe six, with nut-brown skin, eyes caramel, deep, kind and inquisitive. She raised a small hand to add a fifth lumpy, clay figurine to the windowsill of a mud hut.

Behind her stood a stunner of a woman with mahogany skin and thick black hair like an untamed mustang’s mane. She dropped a hand on the child’s shoulder and asked, “What is her name?”

“Khonouar,” the girl answered with a sweet smile.

“This is my prophet.”

Dean leaped half out of his skin and turned, ready to pummel whoever had spoken. But there was no way he was going to beat a stout, little woman, even if she had snuck up on him. At least not until she gave him a reason to.

Her eyes were huge, round and dark, almost eerily so. Her skin was the same reddish-brown clay hue as the other two, hair just as inky-sleek. Her smile was similar to the girl’s mother, but sadder and with broader lips.

Once Dean finished eyeballing the lady and letting her know with a glare he didn’t appreciate being sneaked up on, he turned back around.

The girl was gone. In her place, stood a woman placing a new statuette among the collection that numbered into the hundreds. This new sculpture was more refined, a rotund woman’s form. She closed her eyes and began an inaudible chant.

“Just as Yahweh was born of Abraham and Zeus of Bemus, my first prophet’s faith drew me into existence. Thus, she was the first to hear me speak and devoted her life to me,” the woman at Dean’s shoulder spoke, her dusky voice infiltrating his skin. “Never married or had children. Only me. In return, I revealed to her things that I should not have.”

The woman at the window went on chanting, so Dean gave the one behind him his full attention. He raised a hand to his eyes to shield against the midday sun and noticed for the first time that he was standing in an entire enclave of little huts. Brown-skinned women carried jars on their heads as they scolded the small children who chased dogs through the village.

“I taught her the secrets to the fabric of life and manipulating its elements. For this, I was called before a council of my siblings, all gods of man.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed in concentration. He had no reason to believe in God, singular or plural, but he was prepared to listen so that he could get to the bottom of this madness.

“When I was found guilty, the punishment was to have my soul divided in two for an age. This was a rare punishment for an immortal, but one which I deserved as much as Prometheus. For so long, the pieces of me have yearned for one another.”

Dean blinked, and they stood in the shadow of a tower, gazing up at a young, auburn-haired woman at a window. Her chin rested in her hand, tresses caught in the breeze.

“She’ll never know her true love. Will never lay eyes on him as he will never tread this continent. Even now, he’s writing poetry for her in a tongue they will never share.”

Dean snorted. “Punk.”

His guide ignored him.

Again, they were whisked to a crooked house where an old man with pale skin counted roughly shaped silver coins at the window. Behind him, a small boy stared wide-eyed at the knight who accepted the money. The child caught the cavalier’s eye and held it. “Is that your son?”

“Get back to work.” The toothless curmudgeon spat over his shoulder.

The boy did as he was told. The knight shook his head and wiped his mouth. He gathered up his pouch of wares and said, “Good day.”

“Aye.”

The horseman chanced a final glance at the boy who had taken to the window, resting his arms on the sill, watching as the knight rode away.

“So close, never touching. Or touching, but never blending. Often mother and child. Separated at birth. But never closer than you are to --”

“No.”

“You and your dear brother are the closest I've come to being unified again. If you would give in to all your love for him--”

“You're saying I should fuck Sam?”

“You must love him without boundary.”

 

***

 

Rowena’s sharp face peered into Dean’s. “What did you see?”

“A … this chick … I don’t know. She said she was … That we’re … ” Even thinking the words was ridiculous. “Two parts of one soul? Hers”

Rowena looked at Missouri. “Is that possible?”

The room spun as Dean sat up. “I need you to fix it.”

“Fix?” Her ruby-red mouth fell open. “You think there’s something wrong? Do you have any idea of the power? We should be harnessing —”

“I don’t want that. Don’t want this.” He ran a hand over his head. “I need you to fix it, so I don't want Sam anymore. So he doesn't want me. Missouri said you could.”

“There's no way to undo this kind of bond.”

“I need my brother to be able to live his life. I know you got something.”

She shook her head, sighed at Missouri who’d been watching from her rocking chair. “I can't promise what the outcome will be if I try to tamper with a connection this fundamental. It could destroy you both.”

“Well, I don’t want to be destroyed.”

“What about an erasure?” Missouri spoke up, packing her pipe.

Rowena sighed. “Yes. I suppose that could work.”

“What does it mean?”

“If your brother doesn’t exist, you won’t want him anymore, now, will you?”

Dean’s hand ached for his empty holster. “Nobody’s going to hurt Sam.”

“Relax, cowboy. Nobody’s going to get hurt. Ro, explain it to him,” Missouri said and began to rock as she smoked.

“I cannot break your bond. I can, however, make you and everyone you know forget you ever had a brother. If there are living people you have in common, their memories will bond to whichever of you they feel closer to.”

“I’m just going to completely forget Sam?”

“That’s right.”

Dean snorted. “That’s not going to fucking happen.”

“If you don’t believe it, don’t ask for my help.” She rolled her eyes, tossed her hair and began to stalk away.

“All right. Fine. Do it.”

“You should ask his--”

“I know what he's going to say and I’m not running away into the sunset with him.” Dean took a deep breath and faced Rowena head-on. “Will it hold a lifetime?”

“Even if you happen to see him.” She raised a skinny finger in warning. “But the spell could waver if you touch.”

“Well, I'm not in the habit of touching random guys.”

She fluttered false lashes and said, “Then you should be fine.”


	6. Chapter 6

Every now and again, Dean Winchester took a night off. He was a hardworking man who earned every moment of R&R he allowed his bones. If they sometimes creaked, he never let on. More or less, he was still in his prime.

When he’d stepped into this bar, it had just been for a drink and maybe a round of pool, for kicks. No hole-hunt tonight, just hanging out. 

The thing is, Dean had a type.  
And when somebody filled that bill, well, it tended to derail his thought.  
This kid was slim and tall. Only the hair was too light, too wavy. Otherwise, he was a solid 9, which was saying something, because Dean was damn hard to please. 

An echo of his father’s voice rang in his ear. ‘You’re 46 years old. When are you going to stop chasing tail?’  
Never is when.  
He’d take himself out back with a rifle at the first indication that he was done chasing tail. 

But he was in a straight bar thinking crooked thoughts. And the kid was a kid - hardly half his age. Yet, there Dean was, carting over two beers, sliding one across the table and opening with, "Don't tell me you're a dull boy."

The kid looked up, the prettiest damn eyes startled and confused. Then, he grinned, real cute. Dimples were a rare bonus. "’Fraid so."

He lifted the textbook revealing that he was studying Organic Chemistry and that the back of his hand had been stamped at the door, which meant under 21. 

‘Abort! Abort!’  
That wasn’t even his father’s voice. It was Dean’s own common sense. 

‘How far under 21?  
Let's stick around and find out’ That last bit was his dick talking.

Dean smiled. “So, I'm with the roving welcome wagon.”

“I come here all the time. I’ve never seen you.” 

“True. I take it upon myself to pass out beers to lonely-looking souls wherever I may roam.”

“Hm. So, you're not coming on to me?”

Dean chuckled. This was going to be easier than expected. “The two do not have to be mutually exclusive.”

The kid blushed and glanced around the bar. “I, um. I'm flattered, but ... I'm not ... I don't ... you know ... with guys.”

“You don't, or you haven't yet?” It was dodgy territory, but Dean couldn’t pull up if his life depended on it. 

All this kid had to do was whistle, and the creep police would be all over him. With good reason. 

“Um... that's my girlfriend over there.”

“The blond?”

The kid shook his head. That only left the Latin-looking girl: dark hair, cinnamon skin, short and slender. 

“Hot.”

“Yeah, so…”

Dean nodded. “Well, I can take no for an answer.” As he stood, he reached into his pocket and laid a card on the table. “I'll leave this with you, in case you ever want to play. Good luck on your test.”

Dean knocked back both beers in the next twenty minutes, paid his tab and split before he did anything else stupid. 

***

The phone rang the following afternoon as he was loading the Impala. No new hunt. Just time to blow this popsicle stand.

“Hi. Is this Dean Clapton?”

He recognized the voice at once. “Dull boy.”

“JD, actually, is what my friends call me.”

“Are we friends?” 

“My middle name is Dean,” the kid answered as if he hadn’t heard the question. 

“Is that right?” The god of insignificant coincidences must have been smiling.

There was a long silence on the other end before JD choked out the words, “What … exactly did you mean by play?”

 

***

 

So, he wouldn’t be checking out after all. Dean strolled up to the lobby and paid for another night, in cash.

JD pedaled up on a shiny silver Schwinn with a black backpack and flushed cheeks. Dean had half a mind to send him back to middle school or wherever he had just come from.  
Only half, though  
He looked like a homemade cherry pie and had shown up of his own free will. 

The kid declined the offer to sit. Declined the beer. Maybe wasn’t as curious or as confident in person as he’d been on the phone. 

“How'd your test go?” Dean helped himself to a cold one.

“Oh, I got to retake it.” JD shrugged. “Doesn’t matter how much I study. Or how much I feel like I know the material. I sit down, and it’s like all the numbers and letters are swimming around...” He glanced around the room, rubbing hands on his skinny jeans.

Dean had been down that road. After his GED, he’d vowed to never take another fucking test as long as he’d live. Vampires, werewolves, sure. Scantrons? Fuck, no. He had another swig, watching JD’s long, slim fingers playing with his belt loops.

“Sorry,” the kid said and stopped fidgeting. 

“Nothing to apologize for.” Dean perched at the foot of the bed. 

‘Ask him how old he is,’ the disembodied voice of John Winchester suggested. 

Dean didn't want to know how old he was. He wanted to dive tongue-first into his mouth and find out what he’d had for lunch. He patted the space beside him.

The kid stopped breathing, looked at that hand like it was a timber rattler.

There was madness afoot. Dean usually preferred experienced partners. Fewer complications, less confusion and no emotional entanglement, which was an absolute no-no. But this kid's fear was intoxication.

Dean could leap to his feet and fuck him raw against the wall.

Instead, he crossed an ankle over his knee. "So what's the J stand for?"

"Huh?"

Dean smiled. He had thrown him for a loop. The kid must have expected he'd be getting fucked against a wall by this point.

"The name."

"Oh. Um. Jonathan. My father wanted to name me John, but my mother said it was too old-fashioned. Nobody calls me either so..."

"Your mom is right. My father's name was John."

"My dad’s, too. Never met him, though.”

"Pretty common name back then.” Dean finished his beer. “So, JD. How long you been with that girl?"

“Little over a year.”

Dean could count on one hand the people he'd gone out with more than once. And two of those times had been to gather intel.

“So I assume you fuck her.”

JD winced. “We sleep together.”

“So, you don't fuck her?”

“She wouldn't want me to say that.”

Dean nodded. JD did need to play. “Does she suck your dick?”

He blinked, licked his lips and glanced at the door. “She thinks it's pornographic.”

“Uh-huh. Do you think that?”

He shrugged. “They do it a lot in pornos, so…”

“Have you ever had your dick sucked, JD?”

His lips clamped shut, wordlessly pleading the fifth. How the Hell old was this kid?

“She your first?”

“No.”

There was that, if it was true.

Dean dropped his bottle to the floor. The kid watched like it might detonate. Dean stood, stepped in front of him. JD had stopped breathing again. “Look. If I do anything you don't like, you tell me, and I stop. That instant. No hard feelings, no shame, okay?”

JD nodded.

“Good.” Dean curled a hand around his neck. Not pulling him. Just admiring his face.  
“Your eyes are amazing.”

Dean brushed his thumb over lips that parted like the Red Sea.

Lord, let the legs be so easy.

Dean could crash into this boy like a wave and watch him drown. He tugged on a corn-colored curl. “Your old-fashioned dad doesn't insist you get this hair cut?”

“He's not my boss, and his hair is just as long…” JD frowned. "You don't like it?"

“I do, actually.” Dean wiped the locks back from his smooth forehead, and the kid’s head tilted back. 

So easy. Too easy. 

That thing occurred to him about candy and babies. And this boy was going to be so sweet. Dean buried his fingers in that mane and gripped lightly, leaning in so he could kiss soft, warm gazelle neck.

JD’s exhale was the prettiest sound on earth. 

Dean had barely touched him, and he was sighing like that. How was Dean supposed to keep from taking everything this child would give?

 

***

 

“I’m sorry,” he said it for the fifth time, laying on the bed, still not removing the arm from his face.

JD’s jeans remained unbuckled and unzipped. The t-shirt was rucked up enough to display that hairless, smooth stomach. Dean hadn't had or seen anything like that in forever. He rested his hand there, thumb tracing back and forth below the navel. "I told you. There's nothing to apologize for."

So Dean was still hard. So they had necked for nearly an hour, and Dean had been tagged out before he could steal second. He pulled the kid’s arm down. "You're fine. You're..."  
Almost fucking perfect

“I didn't mean to…”

“JD. You're cool.”

“I hate when Carly does that.”

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I know, but a gentleman never complains."

JD narrowed his eyes like Dean had spoken in a foreign language.

"Let me guess. Your dad says that."

JD nodded. Every ten minutes Dean was doing something that reminded the kid of his dad.

"Mine, too,” he said. “That's where I got it. Sounds like your dad and my dad got a lot in common." Never mind the fact Dean was old enough to be this kid’s father.

"Is your dad cool?"

"Was. The coolest. Runs in the family." Dean grinned.

JD didn't bite. "My dad is ... a DA. Hot shot. Isn't around much. Pays for school, so ..."

"I see. Yeah.” Time for the heavy stuff. “My dad dragged me around the country from the time I was four. So I saw way too fucking much of his ass. It’s never perfect."

"Your mom was okay with that?" JD looked like he was about to start in with the pity.

Dean didn't answer. The hell he was going to get roped into telling his whole life story to some kid who was scared of a blowjob.

"I should get going."

"You can stay if you want." The words spilled out unvetted.

JD stared and waited for Dean to take them back.

"If you want. I'm going to get something to eat, watch some TV. This is my vacation, see?"

"What do you do?"

"I'm a hunter."

"A professional hunter? So, like, you kill things for a living?" JD lifted Dean’s hand and studied it.

"That's right."

"What kinds of things?"

"All kinds. You name it; I kill it."

The kid traced a fingertip over Dean’s lifeline. It tickled a little. ”Does it make you sad?"

"Sometimes. But some things need killing."

"I'm a vegetarian."

Dean snorted.

"There are better things to do with our hands than taking lives."

"Yeah? Like what?"

JD planted a kiss in the center of Dean’s palm. "If I asked you to stop, would you?"

Dean snickered, laying on the smug act thick, belying the heat this kid was stirring up with his innocent attention. "I just met you yesterday."

"I know, but, like... if I could convince you to get like a reputable, real job..."

Dean laughed out loud at that. "You're something else, you know that?"

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

An hour later, they sat side by side at the headboard, both with ankles crossed, polishing off a third burrito a piece. Dean crumbled and tossed his wrapper onto the heap by their feet. He slung his arm over JD’s shoulder more like a father or a big brother than some old guy who was trying to get into his pants.

Even when JD draped his leg over Dean’s, it was familiar and sweet, rather than seductive. Dean brushed the hair back from his forehead and placed a kiss there because it was the right thing to do. JD hugged Dean’s chest and settled in with his head on his shoulder.

When the kid’s phone rang halfway through I love Lucy, Dean pretended not to notice.

"Hanging out... yeah... ok. I will." He sucked his teeth and tossed the phone onto the bedside table. "I got to go."

"Your mom?"

JD nodded, grabbed his backpack. Dean received a peck on the lips and a tight-lipped smile before the kid left the place.

 

***

 

Eleven days later, Dean rolled JD’s bike into the room while the kid strolled down to the vending machine to get himself a coke. Dean didn’t ask about school, or his mom or anything that would require the kid to reveal just how young he was. 

They stood eye to eye. The boy was slighter but just as broad in the shoulders. Dean’s hands smoothed down them, to his hands. He raised and kissed elegant fingers. Sucked one into his mouth, watching JD’s amber eyes for panic. His tongue darted out before his lips parted. 

With his other hand, Dean gripped sandy curls and tugged until that neck was exposed to be licked. Dean leaned back to take in the boy’s reactions.

So close to perfection.  
Dean couldn’t even imagine what would be better, but there was something …  
Even so, his fingers snaked down the seat of JD’s pants and the child gasped like a virgin in a Pay-per-view porno as they prodded, but didn’t breach his entrance. 

“I broke up with Carly.”

The hand halted its exploration. “Why'd you do that?”

“Because we're... Because I'm …”

Abort! Abort! Dean’s brain sent off red flashing lights and sirens like they did at least once every single time the kid was there. Run for the hills.

“...With you every day and I think I…”

Dean took a hard look at the puffy sockets around the bloodshot eyes. The sirens silenced and he leaned in to whisper, “What's up, kid?”

“I told my dad I think I might be gay.”

“Wow.” Dean extricated the hand, took a step back and scratched his forehead as a tear dripped from JD’s chin.

“And that I have a boyfriend.”

“Good grief, kid.” Dean ran a finger under the collar of his shirt and took a deep breath to fill his lungs with some of the suddenly too-thin air.

“And that he's … a lot older.”

Dean’s face fell into his palm. He took a few seconds to compose himself. It wasn’t going to help anything to start yelling, as much as he wanted to. “Why … would you tell him any of that?”

“People lie when they're ashamed, Dean. I'm not.” JD sniffed. “Are you?”

“No.” Dean patted his cheek, splashing the steady stream of tears. “Of course not. Just…”

“He wants to meet you.”

Before he’d thought it through, Dean took another step away. The backs of his knees hit the foot of the bed. “Shit.”  
He turned and paced, hand running through his hair. “Shit, kid.”  
He rubbed his mouth. “I told you when we met. I don't do... sticking around.”

“So this is... I'm what. A toy?”

“No.”

“A game.”

“J.”

The kid shook his head and sat down on the bed, shoulders slumped like a much younger child.

“No. No, okay?” Dean kneeled between his knees. “JD. Look, I'll meet your dad, okay? I'll, uh, tell him I turned you gay. I'm sure we'll be great friends, me and him.”

“You didn't... you can’t turn someone gay. I was looking at you, too. At the bar. I know you noticed that. I know that's why you brought the beers over. Because you saw me looking.”

It was true. Dean had seen an opening and dove through it, cock first, without thinking.

“And I called you.”

That was true, too. Dean had put the card in the kid’s hand and never expected to see this pretty face again. Dean took his cheeks in his hands. "Alright. When do I get to meet this guy?"

"You don't have to."

"Yeah. I know that.” He chuckled. “But you got balls of steel. It's hard not to honor that."

It took a moment before JD smiled, dimples and all. "You said I taste like honey."

"Steel and honey. And ... that fucking smile. You think I'm ever going to be able to say no to that?" Dean kissed him.

JD leaned away. Dean grabbed hold of his neck and kissed him again. He was about to meet this kid’s fucking parents. Where the Hell was his resolve?

“Are you going to stay?”

“I can't stay, kid. I can ... maybe, come back.”

“Will you?”

Dean nodded. "I got... shit to take care of. Shit I should be taking care of right now... but... yeah. I'll come back... when I can.” Shocking to himself, he meant it.

"Are you my boyfriend? I mean.” JD dropped his chin to his chest. “I told my dad that you're my boyfriend, so I didn't have to say it was a booty call or something stupid like that?"

"If you think that'll be easier for him to swallow, yeah, you can say that." In his life, Dean had never been anyone's boyfriend. Cassie had been an anomaly. Lisa had been bendy. Now, at age 46, he was being claimed, like it or not, by a 19-year-old. It was almost funny. “What's your dad’s name?”

“Sam.”

 

***

 

JD’s mom was hot. His dad… 

Dean offered his hand. JD’s dad was a big dude, and he didn’t look any happier than Dean had expected. There was a lot of his stern features in JD’s face. The eye color, the lips. He had the same wavy, fair tresses as his mom. The dad was only a few inches taller than his son but seemed to tower over both of them and his wife. 

Was it too late to take back the boyfriend thing? Should have gone with 'mentor.' Should have left this kid alone, skipped town, anything other than this. 

Not that Dean was concerned about a pissed civilian. He was just starting to see the word ‘scumbag’ written behind the guy’s eyes and couldn’t completely disagree with the assessment. 

If this Sasquatch hit him, Dean would have no choice but to cuff him back. Or … he could take the punch and use that as an excuse to stay away from JD.

Could he do that to the kid, after he promised?  
Shit.  
Actual real feelings.  
Not Romeo and Juliet, but Dean liked him and his body ... JD was built like a smaller version of his dad whose body was a miracle, even in the monkey suit.

Thankfully, no one saw Dean checking him out. It was a reflex. But this guy was the elusive 10: those shoulders, the legs. The hair. He was so right that Dean shifted his stance and intentionally diverted his eyes for a second.  
And if he didn't know better the guy was checking him out too.  
Come on.  
No way both dad and son are into guys.  
But god, to be the Spam in that sandwich.

The Mrs. touched Sam’s arm, and he flinched. He’d been watching Dean like he was for dinner, but maybe not in the good way.

JD cleared his throat. “Dean Clapton, this is my father, Sam Winchester.”

Winchester?  
No shit.  
Which would make JD’s name Jonathan Dean Winchester.  
Now, that was one hell of a coincidence. 

“Why are you ... with my son?” To the point. Had to admire that. 

"I, um..." Dean blathered like an idiot.

"What kind of question is that, Dad?” JD came to his rescue. “Why is anyone with anyone? Why are you with Mom?"

"Because I love her." Sam directed all statements to Dean. "Do you love Jonathan?"

The guy’s voice itched under Dean’s skin. "We've known each other two weeks."

"So, no."

"That's not what I--"

"Do you love him?" Sam Winchester asked Jonathan.

"Yes."

JD’s dad gave Dean the classic 'I hope you're happy' bitch face. "And so your intentions are..."

"Well, I'm not going to knock him up, if that's what you're asking."

"Why do I have the feeling you're the kind of person who doesn't take anything seriously?” The dad said, a little too much like Dean’s father. “For whom nothing is sacred."

Dean raised his brow, unable to protest. It was a fair statement. "I care about your kid. I do. Or I wouldn't be here. Can I get that much credit?"

"How old are you, Mr. Clapton?"

Dean swallowed.

“He's taking advantage. You know that I’m right. He's using you.”

“I don't care, Dad. I don't care.” 

“Listen... Sam,” Dean said. “I’m... It sounds like you got your ideas about who I am and what I’m about and maybe they’re not all wrong. I can tell you it was never my intention to hurt your son in any way." To the kid, he said, "I’m sorry if I did."

"You didn't. You don't. He's ... Dad."

Sam Winchester went on glaring. 

"I think I should probably head out."

“No." JD stood with him.

“This has been... educational."

"Dean." The kid followed him to the door: lovesick puppy, sniffling and begging the whole way. 

He only stopped when his dad grabbed his arm and said, "Let him go, Son."

 

***

When the knock came at the door, Dean rolled his eyes and smirked. JD was like a retriever. You could take him all the way out into the middle of the woods. He’d always find his way …

Not the kid  
His hot-ass dad.  
Sam  
And his little friend.

Dean’s heart’s skip-beat reaction to seeing the man again threw him off more than the pistol.

Winchester

Could there have been some cousins who came out west during the gold rush? Of course, there had to be some relation. The surname wasn't that common. It wasn’t all that unusual, though. 

Dean wasn’t about to ask this jerkwad about his family tree while he had an 8 mm in his face.

“Stay away from my son.”

“He’s a fucking adult.”

“You …” The guy was some hotshot lawyer. 

Probably had Dean’s plates run by a buddy down at the local precinct. More than likely, he’d spent the entire drive over here psyching up the nerve to pop a cap in Dean’s ass and calculating how he was going to get away with his first murder. 

Here he was, standing in the doorway, at the moment of truth and all he could manage to say was, ‘you.’

Dean shook his head and laughed, bitter and dismissive. “He wanted you.”

“What?”

Yeah. That had come out all wrong.

“His father. Any father.” And Dean knew all about that mindfuck. 

He hadn’t gone running after raven-haired older guys to make up for John Winchester’s absenteeism, but the first time he’d ever wrapped his arms around a hairy barrel chest, there was this sensation - this wholeness. This ‘aha.’ That had been what he had given JD. The kid probably wasn’t even into guys. Or not exclusively.

He certainly wasn’t into being fucked, and that was fine with Dean. The kissing, the petting, the falling asleep stroking his hair and waking up nuzzled against him had fulfilled some need in the older man as much as it had in Sam’s son. That’s the only way to explain why he hadn’t skipped town two weeks ago like he should have.

All of this ran through Dean’s mind in the span of the second that it took for the giant at the door to lower his weapon and raise his fist. 

The punch was not the limp-wristed, gym-rat half attack of a desk-jockey. This guy knew how to use his hands and how to twist his body into the blow. It was almost too powerful, like being struck by lightning. Stunned, Dean stumbled backward into the room. 

Sam tossed his gun to the floor and charged ready to fuck Dean up like he was a China shop. Shaking off the initial shock, Dean got his head into the game and hit back. A surge pulsed through him each time one of them landed a punch. 

What the fuck?

He gawked at his bloody knuckles. No way shuffling feet were generating this much static.

They circled the room, tearing at each other with fists and feet and furniture until they stood a few feet from one another, slightly bent and breathing hard. Sam nursed an arm. 

Dean swiped the blood from his lips. “He’s got your eyes.”

Sam Winchester narrowed his gaze and seemed ready to strike again. He shook his head as if he was trying to dislodge corrosion from his brain matter. “No. He has your eyes. The shape, the depth...” the words fell out with a harsh breath. 

Dean searched the carpet for the gun. His was on the table. If this dude was going to accuse him of sleeping with his wife - of being JD’s real father - there was only one way this thing was going to end. 

“Dean?”

Just as he was planning a lunge for the closer of the two weapons, Dean froze. 

“Dean. What the hell is happening?” Sam Winchester looked at his hands like they were melting.

His frantic hazel eyes searched the ceiling and the walls as he raised both hands and sent Dean flying against the wall without touching him. Then he stomped across the floor, grabbed Dean’s face between his humongous hands and smashed their mouths together. 

Dean pushed the telekinetic lunatic away. He’d seen angels and demons do that kind of shit. Not district’s attorneys.

JD’s father stood there, eyes wide, panting. “Dean? You were just gone. And then...” He licked the blood from his lips, Dean’s blood.

Dean’s blood.  
Blood and flesh  
His body lurched at a nauseating sensation, not unlike a brick wall collapsing behind his sinuses. He blinked around the suddenly too bright motel room and at the behemoth of a man in front of him. For a fraction of a second, the man was faceless, nameless. Another blink,  
“Sammy?”

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirked up before he leaned in again and pressed their foreheads together. His fists curled in the front of Dean’s shirt before he closed his glassy eyes. “Oh God. … I could feel you … slipping away. Like sand, like water between my fingers. There was nothing I could do.”

“Sam?”

“Who would do this? Keep us apart like this. Why?” Sam dropped his face to Dean’s shoulder, clutching him, fury blossoming into a different breed of fire.

Dean closed his eyes to win a moment of peace, a bit of space in which to collect his thoughts, to dust off his strangely flooding memories.

Red hair  
A witch  
A goddess  
A big, dumb, 20-year mistake

“Sam. I’m sorry.”

“What do you…” it was a moment before Sam’s confusion dissipated into hurt. “Why?”

“I don't know. I…” Dean looked away from him. “I couldn’t handle it.”

“You could have just said no.”

“I said no. I'd been saying no your whole life. You couldn't hear ‘no.’”

Sam shook his head like he’d been struck. Like his ears were ringing. He straightened his spine and took a step back. “You fucked my son.”

“I didn’t.”

Sam scoffed. “Come on. I know you.” He squeezed his eyes shut and wiped his hand over his face. He turned his back as if he would walk away - walk out of the motel and never look back. “Why him?”

And not me?

The unasked question hung between them in the dim room. 

“I didn’t know he was your kid. Hell, I didn’t know… Didn’t remember you until … I don’t know what broke the spell.”

Sam nodded, took a deep breath. Resolving himself. Older but still more familiar than Dean’s reflection.

As Dean took a step to close the space between them, Sam held up a single hand. “I’m going to go home. You’re going to stay away from Jonathan. Go and … I don’t know. Hunt ghosts or whatever it is you do now. Just stay away from him. Or I will kill you.”

Dean kept his back pressed to the wall, watched his baby brother leave, not out of fear, but paralyzed by some other rush of emotion he hadn’t suffered in two decades. 

 

***

Sam wasn’t the only one with friends. Dean could have run his brother’s tags just as easily to track him down. As it turned out, the DA’s office wasn’t exactly difficult to find. 

Sam didn’t come flooding out of the office around noon when the rest of the schlubs shuffled off to lunch with their blackberries or trying to talk over one another. In fact, he didn’t vacate the premises until well after 11 PM with a briefcase and a sour face to match his tailored suit.

Dean shut the car door, and Sam stopped, head snapping in the direction of the sound. All these years, old habits hadn’t died. Dean stretched his back after the long stake out and began to amble towards him. 

Sam held up a hand, physically holding Dean in place. “I’d forgotten about this, too. It’s useful.”

“Would you knock it off?” Dean shouted across the deserted street, unable to budge. 

After a moment, Sam dropped his hand, easing his telekinetic hold. “I told you to get out of here.”

“Yeah. And I told you I was sorry. Looks like neither of us can hear very well anymore.”

“What do you want me to say? You expect me to forgive you for erasing my memory and taking that choice away from me? Because I don’t. You crossed a line, Dean.”

“What I expect is for you to stop being so melodramatic.” Dean chuckled. “To come down to Fiona’s and have a drink with your brother. And after that, I honestly don’t know.”

“Like none of this ever happened?”

“Yeah. Kind of like that.”

Sam shook his head and looked up the road. “And JD?”

“I told you, I don’t know. The kid called me sixteen times today.”

“What’d you say to him?”

“Nothing,” Dean said. “Which is, I’m guessing, why he wouldn’t stop calling. Bitch gene is strong with him.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, but didn’t refute it. ”You like him?”

“Yeah. He’s a great kid. Jess did good.”

“I mean--”

Dean sighed and turned away, looking at nothing in particular. “I told you, that’s not what it was about. Not really. You’ve just turned into dad.” 

Sam searched for the same nothing as Dean, and didn’t bother denying the allegation. “You shouldn't have left. Shouldn’t have made me do this alone. I’ve messed it all up.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling. It’s a good thing you got your big brother to help you dig out of it.” Dean clapped his shoulder. 

“I’m still completely pissed at you,” Sam said but leaned into the hand.

“Fair.”

A mechanical beep split the otherwise silent night. Sam tossed his briefcase into the trunk.  
Dean turned up his nose. “Let’s take my car.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I assume you still travel with a full arsenal in the boot.” Sam shut his trunk. “I’ll drive.”

At least he wasn’t still refusing to talk. Dean bit down on his commentary and slid into the passenger’s side of his little brother’s ridiculously comfortable beige leather upholstered douche car.

Fiona’s was a block away from Sam’s office, and he drove right past it. Once again, Dean overrode his complaints and resigned himself to cigars and cocktails at the country club. It didn’t matter where they went. What mattered was him and Sam.

His little brother drove with single-minded intensity, only glancing over at Dean at stoplights. He ventured a tight smile and eased onto the gas when the light turned green.

Dean didn’t dare shatter the comfortable quiet to ask what he was thinking. He stroked his fingers down Sammy’s jaw, grinning at that old familiar crackle.

When the car came to rest it was on a cliff. The Pacific ocean reflected a mostly full, blood-red moon. Dean admired the view and didn’t react to the heavy, warm hand on his thigh.

“This would be a good time to say no?”

Dean shook his head. No hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

“I know you’re scared.”

“I’m not.”

“I am.”

If Sam was afraid, it didn’t stop him from holding Dean’s jaw and turning him until there was only a hairsbreadth between them. 

There they were again: the snap-pop-fizz of sparks when their lips came near. Sam pulled away, smiled and initiated again. This time, Dean met him halfway, igniting an explosion in the center of his chest. “Holy God.”

Sam’s breath puffed out loud and hard as a steam engine with things to prove. Dean’s heart thudded out the same mantra.

“Dean, we don’t have to--”

Dean grabbed two fistsful of sports jacket and slammed into his brother without remorse or caution. Teeth gnashed, tongues vied for dominance as the car flooded with low, primal groans. There was blood, Sam’s palm cupping his skull, and his smooth jaw between Dean’s hands. 

All at once, Sam pulled back, wiped his sleeve over his split lip and climbed out of the car. 

Dean’s head spun, body reeled for more. But Sam was running away. It was too much, too fast. Or he was still pissed. Didn’t want this anymore, after all. It had been too long. Dean had blown it. 

The obnoxious ding alerted him to the very obvious fact that the door was still ajar. Sam stood just outside of it, loosening his tie. Tossing it onto the driver’s seat, followed by his jacket. He smirked like a super-villain, eyes full of dark promise as he unbuttoned his shirt and unfastened his dress pants.

He slipped out of them, along with his jersey briefs, shut the front door and climbed into the back seat.

Long legs splayed while he stroked a masterpiece of a cock with an equally awe-inspiring hand.

Dean turned back around and blew a loud breath toward the ocean.Then he climbed between the seats and spilled himself into his beautiful brother’s lap.

Sam chuckled and adjusted to make space for him. Dean was peeling out of his jacket as Sam went straight for his belt. They both laughed through the ridiculous contortionism that became necessary for Dean to get out of his shirts. 

Once his jeans were bunched around his thighs, Sam lifted and turned him onto his knees. 

“Jesus.” Dean gripped the door handle to keep his face from smashing against the glass. 

Usually, he did the manhandling. Sam didn’t bother with apologies, permissions or preambles. He simply spat onto his brother’s hole and encircled it with his thumb.

“Wait a minute, Sammy.”

All of those years of (pointedly not) thinking about this and the details had been slightly (hugely) different. 

“Relax,” was the last word Sam spoke before his tongue became otherwise occupied. 

Dean dropped his chin to his chest and for the first time in his life, stopped fighting. He spread his knees as wide as the denim would let them part, gave Sam his way and let himself feel good. 

Dean had never witnessed a mushroom cloud or a supernova. Even if he had, those were external things. Nothing could compare with the moment when Sam began to breach him. It wasn’t a physical sensation, or not merely. There was all of the burn and stretch of taking a man as large as Sam, but beyond it, within the feelings were waves and vibrations and unspeakable light that pulsed, as if his consciousness had a prostate.

Ecstasy?  
Bliss?

But Dean wasn’t thinking in words  
He wasn’t thinking at all  
He wasn’t even feeling. 

He was one with Sam. Sam was moving in him and then deeper still, moaning into his hair, an arm like a vice around his chest, sweat cleaving them together. Dean was seeping onto Sam’s upholstery and puffing hot clouds onto his window, vision blurred by tears, sobbing past the fingers in his mouth.

“God, Sam.”

“I love you.”

The impossible joy of blending with Sam rose into a violent tension that exploded through his veins, down his spine as Pleasure liquified and sprayed the seat while the brothers cried out in unison.

Panting through hysterical laughter, Sam collapsed onto Dean’s back just as the bottom seemed to fall out of his stomach. He was a split second from complaining about his brother’s weight when they were both slammed against the roof of the car. 

The air forced from Dean’s lungs and he lay, crushed beneath Sam, gasping for air and a handle on the situation. 

Sam sat upright first and gave an encouraging assessment. “Shit.”

Dean pulled himself to his knees and immediately concurred. “Fuck.”

The frigid sea poured into the half-open passenger window too fast. Sam jiggled the handle, grunted as the door refused to budge. Dean kicked out of his cumbersome pants and tried his own door, although the outcome would be the same.

So, this would be the end of them. Dean’s last act on earth would be connecting with Sam. And somehow, that was as it should be. He couldn’t even be sad, except that he didn’t want to watch Sam suffer. 

With the water around their chests, he painted on a brave smile: showering all the tenderness and love onto his beautiful baby brother. To die with Sammy was the only way to go. 

“No,” Sam said. “No no no. That was not nearly enough.”

“I don’t know what else I can give you, Sammy.” The regret of all those wasted years leaked into Dean’s voice.

“I want the rest of my life with you.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s what you’re going to get, kid. All five minutes.”

“No.” Sam narrowed his eyes.

The back window buckled and bellowed. Dean covered his eyes as the glass blew out.

It was only as the car was sinking and they were bobbing in the ocean, like a pair of corks with frozen nuts, did it occur to Dean that the car couldn’t have possibly just gone over the cliff. It would have dived nose first. 

The city lights were a speck of hope, miles in the dark distance.  
They must have floated in mid-air during the coupling and careened from the air the moment they were complete.

“That’s some… afterglow you got there, Sammy.”

“I never so much as moved a pencil while you were gone.”

Dean nodded and continued to tread water. “How’s your breaststroke?”

“Better idea.” Sam swam close and grabbed Dean into his arms.

“Put me the fuck down.”

“I will,” Sam said as he rose to the surface of the water, striding across the waves, carrying Dean like a bride. 

Speechless, Dean let the thing happen, because, what the hell do you say?

The closer they came to land, the choppier the water became. Sam dropped Dean to his feet, and they both sank beneath the foam before reemerging for gasps of air.

They swam the rest of the way and dragged their soggy asses onto the beach, Sam on his back, Dean face down in the sand like an exhausted whale.

When he was pretty sure they were going to live, Dean lifted his head and turned to Sam. With the ocean crashing behind them, he wiped wave-tossed salt and pepper hair from his brother’s beautiful face. The shore shifted beneath them, but those variable eyes held the same awe as always.

Dean smiled, and with all the love in his heart, he said. “I’m glad we took your car.”

 

THE END


End file.
